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ROBERT  BROWNING 

AND 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BARRETT 
Volume  II. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/lettersofrobertb02brow 


■-    ilaHpis 


U'Uhi/^ct/t,  t_soa/rr&tt>  ^jTaunvo? 


'j? 


from   in  VvCjuu    ■ '  .  ■ 


hyHapper&Brpthei    .NbwYoA 


THE  LETTERS  OF 

ROBERT   BROWNING 

AND 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BARRETT 

1845-1846 

WITH  PORTRAITS  AND  FACSIMILES 

IN   TWO    VOLUMES 
Vol.  II. 


. 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


Copyright,  1898,  by  Hakper  &  Brotmbs. 

AU  righu  rtltfvtd. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PORTRAIT   OF  ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING    .     .    Frontispiece 

After  the  picture  by  Gordigiani 

FACSIMILE    OF    LETTER    OF    ELIZABETH    BARRETT 

BARRETT To  face  p.  660 


3  ,; 

536631 


THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING 
AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 


B.  B.  to  F.  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  March  25,  1846.] 

You  were  right  to  bid  me  never  again  wish  my  poor 
flowers  were  '  diamonds ' — you  could  not,  I  think,  speak 
so  to  my  heart  of  any  diamonds.  God  knows  my  life  is  for 
you  to  take  just  as  you  take  flowers : — these  last  please  you, 
serve  you  best  when  plucked — and  '  my  life's  rose  '  .  .  if 
I  dared  profane  that  expression  I  would  say,  you  have  but 
to  '  stoop  '  for  it.     Foolish,  as  all  words  are. 

Yon  dwell  on  that  notion  of  your  being  peculiarly  iso- 
lated,— of  any  kindness  to  you,  in  your  present  state,  seem- 
ing doubled  and  quadrupled — what  do  I,  what  could  any- 
one infer  from  that  but,  most  obviously,  that  it  was  a  very 
fortunate  thing  for  such  kindness,  and  that  the  presumable 
bestower  of  it  got  all  his  distinction  from  the  fact  that  no 
better  .  .  however,  I  hate  this  and  cannot  go  on.  Dear- 
est, believe  that  under  ordinary  circumstances,  with  ordi- 
nary people,  all  operates  differently— the  imaginary  kind- 
ness-bestower  with  his  ideal  methods  of  showing  and 
proving  his  love,  — there  would  be  the  rival  to  fear ! 

Do  not  let  us  talk  of  this — you  always  beat  me,  beside, 

turn  my   own  illustrations  into   obscurations — as  in  the 

notable  case  of  the  cards  and  stakes  and  risks — I  suppose, 

(to  save  my  vanity !)  that  if  I  knew  anything  about  cards? 

Vol.  II.— 1 


2     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  25 

I  might  go  on,  a  step  at  least,  with  my  argument.  I  once 
heard  a  dispute  in  the  street  between  the  proprietor  of  an 
oyster-stall  and  one  of  his  customers — 10I10  was  in  the 
wrong  .  .  that  is,  10I10  used  the  clenching  argument  you 
shall  hear  presently,  I  don't  remember;  but  one  brought 
the  other  to  this  pass — 'Are  there  three  shells  to  an  oyster?  ' 
— Just  that !  If  there  were  not — he  would  clearly  be  found 
in  the  wrong,  that  as  all ! — '  Why, '  .  .  began  the  other ; 
and  I  regret  I  did  not  catch  the  rest — there  was  such  a  clear 
possibility  contained  in  that  '  Why  .  .  an  oyster  might 
have  three  shells ! ' 

Note  the  adroitness, — (calm  heroic  silence  of  the  act 
rather  than  a  merely  attempted  word,)  the  mastery  with 
which,  taking  up  Ba's  implied  challenge,  I  do  furnish  her 
with  both  '  amusement  and  instruction  ' — moreover  I  will 
at  Ba's  bidding  amuse  and  instruct  the  world  at  large,  and 
make  them  know  all  to  be  known — for  my  purposes — about 
'  Bells  and  Pomegranates  '  —yes,  it  will  be  better. 

I  said  rather  hastily  that  my  head  '  ached  '  yesterday  : 
that  meant,  only  that  it  was  more  observable  because,  after 
walking,  it  is  usually  well — and  I  had  been  walking.  To- 
day it  is  much  better ;  I  sit  reading  '  Cromwell, '  and  the 
newspaper,  and  presently  I  shall  go  out — all  will  be  better 
now,  I  hope — it  shall  not  be  my  fault,  at  least,  depend  on 
that.  All  my  work  (work !) — well,  such  as  it  is,  it  is  done 
— and  I  scarcely  care  hoiv — I  shall  be  prouder  to  begin  one 
day — (may  it  be  soon ! — )  with  your  hand  in  mine  from  the 
beginning — that  is  a  very  different  thing  in  its  effect  from 
the  same  hand  touching  mine  after  I  had  begun,  with  no 
suspicion  such  a  chance  could  befall !  I  repeat,  both  these 
things,  •  Luria '  and  the  other,  are  manque,  failures — the 
life-incidents  ought  to  have  been  acted  over  again,  experi- 
enced afresh;  and  I  had  no  inclination  nor  ability.  But 
one  day,  my  siren ! 

Let  me  make  haste  and  correct  a  stupid  error.  I  spoke 
to  my  father  last  night  about  that  tragedy  of  the  studs — I 
was  wholly  out  in  the  story — the  sufferer  was  his  uncle,  and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  3 

the  scene  should  have  been  laid  on  the  Guinea  coast. 
Apropos  of  errors — the  copyright  matter  is  most  likely  a 
case  of  copyivrong  by  reporters— I  never  heard  of  it  before 
— to  be  sure,  I  signed  a  petition  of  Miss  Martineau's 
superintending  once  on  a  time — but  long  ago,  '  I,  I,  I ' — 
how,  dear,  all  important  '  I '  takes  care  of  himself,  and 
issues  bulletins,  and  corrects  his  wise  mistakes,  and  all 
this  to  .  .  just  '  one  of  his  readers  of  the  average  intelli- 
gence.' Are  you  that,  so  much  as  that,  Ba?  I  will  tell 
you — if  you  do  not  write  to  me  all  about  you?'  dear,  dearest 
self,  I  shall  sink  with  shame  at  the  recollection  of  what 
this  letter  and  its  like  prove  to  be — must  prove  to  be !  Dear 
love,  tell  me — that  you  walk  and  are  in  good  spirits,  and 
I  will  try  and  write  better.  May  God  bless  my  own  be- 
loved ! —    Ever  her  own 

E. 

I  think,  am  all  but  sure,  there  is  a  Mrs.  Hornblower 
something ! 

Just  a  minute  to  say  your  second  note  has  come,  and 
that  I  do  hate  hate  having  to  write,  not  kiss  my  answer  on 
your  dearest  mouth — kindest,  dearest— to-morrow  I  will 
try — and  meantime — though  Ba  by  the  fire  will  not  be  cold 
at  heart,  cold  of  heart,  at  least,  and  I  will  talk  to  her  and 
more  than  talk — My  dearest,  dearest  one ! 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  March  26,  1846.] 

But  if  people  half  say  things, — intimate  things,  as 
when  your  disputant  in  the  street  (you  are  felicitous,  I 
think,  in  your  street-experiences)  suggested  the  possible 
case  of  the  '  three  oyster  shells  to  an  oyster,' — why  you 
must  submit  to  be  answered  a  little,  and  even  confuted  at 
need.     Now  just  see — 

.  .  '  Got  all  his  distinction  from  the  fact  that  no  better ' 


4    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  26 

.  .  That  is  precisely  the  fact  .  .  so  .  .  as  you  have  stated 
it,  and  implied  .  .  '  The  fact  that  no  better '  .  .  is  to  be 
found  in  the  world — no  better  .  .  none.  There,  is  the 
peculiar  combination.  The  isolation  on  one  side,  and  the 
best  in  the  whole  world,  coming  in  for  company  !  And  I 
'  dwell '  upon  it,  never  being  tired  .  .  and  if  you  are  tired 
already,  you  must  be  tired  of  me,  because  the  '  dwelling ' 
has  grown  to  be  a  part  of  me  and  I  cannot  put  it  away.  It 
is  my  especial  miracle  a  moi.  '  No  better?  '  No,  indeed! 
not  in  the  seven  worlds !  and  just  there,  lies  the  miraculous 
point. 

But  you  mean  it  perhaps  otherwise.  You  mean  that 
it  is  a  sort  of  pis  aller  on  my  part.  A  pis  oiler  along  the 
Via  lactea  .  .  is  that  what  you  mean? 

Shall  I  let  you  off  the  rest,  dearest,  dearest?  though 
you  deserve  ever  so  much  more,  for  implying  such  mon- 
strous things,  and  treading  down  all  my  violets,  so  and  so. 
What  did  I  say  to  set  you  writing  so?  I  cannot  remem- 
ber at  all?  If  I  '  dwell '  on  anything,  beloved,  it  is  that  I 
feel  it  strongly,  be  sure — and  if  I  feel  gratitude  to  you  with 
the  other  feelings,  you  should  not  grudge  what  is  a  happy 
feeling  in  itself,  and  not  dishonouring  (I  answer  for  that)  to 
the  object  of  it. 

Now  I  shall  tell  you.  I  had  a  visitor  to-day — Mrs. 
Jameson;  and  when  she  went  away  she  left  me  ashamed 
of  myself — J  felt  like  a  hypocrite — I,  who  was  not  born  for 
one,  I  think.  She  began  to  talk  of  you  .  .  talked  like  a 
wise  woman,  which  she  is  .  .  led  me  on  to  say  just  what  I 
might  have  said  if  I  had  not  known  you,  (she,  thoroughly 
impressed  with  the  notion  that  we  two  are  strangers  ! )  and 
made  me  quite  leap  in  my  chair  with  a  sudden  conscious- 
ness, by  exclaiming  at  last  .  .  '  I  am  really  glad  to  hear 
you  speak  so.  Such  appreciation '  <fcc.  &c.  .  .  .  imagine 
what  she  went  on  to  say.  Dearest — I  believe  she  rather 
gives  me  a  sort  of  credit  for  appreciating  you  without  the 
jealousy  '  de  metier. '  Good  Heavens  .  .  how  humiliating 
some  conditions  of  praise  are !     She  approved  me  with  her 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  5 

eye — indeed  she  did.  And  this,  while  we  were  agreeing 
that  you  were  the  best  .  .  '  none  better  '  .  .  none  so  good 
.  .  of  your  country  and  age.  Do  you  know,  while  we  were 
talking,  I  felt  inclined  both  to  laugh  and  to  cry,  and  if  I 
had  '  given  way  '  the  least,  she  would  have  been  consider- 
ably astounded.  As  it  was,  my  hands  were  so  marble-cold 
when  she  took  leave  of  me,  that  she  observed  it  and  began 
making  apologies  for  exhausting  me.  Now  here  is  a  strip 
of  the  '  world, '  .  .  see  what  colour  it  will  turn  to  presently  ! 
We  had  better,  I  think,  go  farther  than  to  your  siren's 
island — into  the  desert  .  .  shall  we  say?  Such  stories 
there  will  be !  For  certain,  .  .  I  shall  have  seen  you  just 
once  out  of  the  window  !  Shall  you  not  be  afraid?  Well 
■ — and  she  talked  of  Italy  too — it  was  before  she  talked  of 
you — and  she  hoped  I  had  not  given  up  the  thoughts  of 
going  there.  To  which  I  said  that '  I  had  not  .  .  but  that 
it  seemed  like  scheming  to  travel  in  the  moon.'  She 
talked  of  a  difference,  and  set  down  the  moon-travelling  as 
simple  lunacy.  'And  simply  lunatical,'  .  .  I  said,  .  . 
'  my  thoughts,  if  chronicled,  would  be  taken  to  be,  per- 
haps' —  'No,  no,  no,!  .  .'  she  insisted  .  .  '  as  long  as 
I  kept  to  the  earth,  everything  was  to  be  permitted  to  me.' 

How  people  talk  at  cross-purposes  in  this  world  .  . 
and  act  so  too !  It's  the  very  spirit  of  worldly  communion. 
Souls  are  gregarious  in  a  sense,  but  no  soul  touches  an- 
other, as  a  general  rule.  I  like  Mrs.  Jameson  nevertheless 
— I  like  her  more.  She  appreciates  you — and  it  is  my  turn 
to  praise  for  that,  now.  I  am  to  see  her  again  to-morrow 
morning,  when  she  has  the  goodness  to  promise  to  bring 
some  etchings  of  her  own,  her  illustrations  of  the  new 
essays,  for  me  to  look  at. 

Ah — your  'failures  in  "Luria"  and  the  "Tragedy  "  ' — 
Proud,  we  should  all  be,  to  fail  exactly  so. 

Dearest,  are  you  better  indeed?  Walk  .  .  talk  to  the 
Ba  in  the  chair  .  .  go  on  to  be  better,  ever  dearest.  May 
God  bless  you!  Ah  .  .  the  'I's.'  You  do  not  see  that 
the  '  I's  ' — as  you  make  them,   .   .  all  turn  to  '  yous  '  by 


6      THE  LETTEKS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  26 

the  time  they  get  to  me.  The  'I's'  indeed!  How  dare 
you  talk  against  my  eyes?  For  me,  I  was  going  down- 
stairs to-day,  but  it  was  wet  and  windy  and  I  was  warned 
not  to  go.  If  I  am  in  bad  or  good  spirits,  judge  from  this 
foolish  letter — foolish  and  wise,  both! — but  not  melan- 
choly, anywise.  When  one  drops  into  a  pun,  one  might  as 
well  come  to  an  end  altogether — it  cant  be  worse  with  one. 
Nor  can  it  be  better  than  being 

Your  own 

'No  better '  /  /  . 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  March  26,  1846.] 

Sometimes  I  have  a  disposition  to  dispute  with  dearest 
Ba,  to  wrench  her  simile-weapons  out  of  the  dexterous 
hand  (that  is,  try  and  do  so)  and  have  the  truth  of  things 
my  way  and  its  own  way,  not  hers,  if  she  be  Ba — (observe, 
I  say  nothing  about  ever  meeting  with  remarkable  success 
in  such  undertakings,  only,  that  they  are  entered  on  some- 
times) .  But  at  other  times  I  seem  as  if  I  must  lie  down, 
like  Flush,  with  all  manner  of  coral  necklaces  about  my 
neck,  and  two  sweet  mysterious  hands  on  my  head,  and  so 
be  forced  to  hear  verses  on  me,  Ba's  verses,  in  which  I, 
that  am  but  Flush  of  the  lower  nature,  am  called  loving 
friend  and  praised  for  not  preferring  to  go  '  coursing  hares  ' 
— with  '  other  dogs.'  So  I  will  lie  now,  as  you  will  have 
it,  and  say  in  Flush-like  tones  (the  looks  that  are  dog's 
tones) — I  don't  don't  know  how  it  is,  or  why,  or  what  it 
all  will  end  in,  but  I  am  very  happy  and  what  I  hear  must 
mean  right,  by  the  music, — though  the  meaning  is  above 
me, — and  here  are  the  hands — which  I  may,  and  will,  look 
up  to,  and  kiss— determining  not  to  insist  any  more  this 
time  that  at  Miss  Mitford's  were  sundry  dogs,  brighter 
than  '  brown  ' —  See  where,  just  where,  Flush  stops  dis- 
creetly !  '  Eternity '  he  would  have  added,  '  but  stern 
death '  &c.  &c. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  7 

I  treat  these  things  lightheartedly,  as  you  see — instead 
of  seriously,  which  would  at  first  thought  seem  the  wiser 
course — '  for  after  all,  she  will  find  out  one  day  '  &c.  No, 
dearest, — I  do  not  fear  that!  Why  make  uneasy  words  of 
saying  simply  I  shall  continue  to  give  you  my  best  flowers, 
all  I  can  find — if  I  bring  violets,  or  grass,  when  you  ex- 
pected to  get  roses, — you  will  know  there  were  none  in  my 
garden — that  is  all. 

And  for  you — as  I  may  have  told  you  once, — as  I  tell 
myself  always — you  are  entirely  what  I  love — not  just  a 
rose  plucked  off  with  an  inch  of  stalk,  but  presented  as  a 
rose  should  be,  with  a  green  world  of  boughs  round :  all 
about  you  is  '  to  my  heart ' — (to  my  mind,  as  they  phrase 
it) — and  were  it  not  that,  of  course,  I  know  when  to  have 
done  with  fancyings  and  merely  flitting  permissible  '  inly- 
sayings  with  heart- play ing, '  and  when  it  is  time  to  look  at 
the  plain  *  best '  through  the  lock  of  '  good  '  and  '  better ' 
in  circumstances  and  accident — I  do  say — were  the  best 
blessing  of  all,  the  blessing  I  trust  and  believe  God  intends, 
of  your  perfect  restoration  to  health, — were  that  not  so 
palpably  best, — I  should  catch  myself  desirous  that  your 
present  state  of  unconfirmed  health  might  never  pass  away ! 
Ba  understands,  I  know !.  After  all,  it  will  always  stay,  that 
luxury, — if  but  through  the  memory  of  what  has  been,  and 
may  recur,  that  deepest  luxury  that  makes  my  very  heart- 
strings tremble  in  the  thought  of — that  I  shall  have  a  right, 
a  duty — where  in  another  case,  they  would  be  uncalled  for, 
superfluous,  impertinent.  Tapers  ordinarily  burn  best  let 
alone,  with  all  your  light  depending  on  the  little  flame,  the 
darkest  night  but  for  it — why,  stand  off— what  good  can 
you  do,  so  long  as  there  is  no  extraordinary  evil  to  avert, 
breaking  down  of  the  candlestick  to  prevent?  But  here — 
there  will  be  reason  as  well  as  a  delight  beyond  delights  in 
always  learning  to  close  over,  all  but  holding  the  flame  in 
the  hollow  of  one's  hand !  I  shall  have  a  right  to  think  it 
is  not  mere  pleasure,  merely  for  myself,  that  I  care  and 
am  close  by — and  that  which  thus  is  called  '  not  for  mj- 


8     THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  26 

self  is,  after  all,  in  its  essence,  most  for  myself, — why  it 
is  a  luxury,  a  last  delight ! — 

In  the  procurement  of  which  there  will  be  this  obstacle, 
or  grave  matter  to  be  first  taken  into  consideration, — that 
the  world  will  '  change  colour  '  about  it,  will  have  its  own 
thoughts  on  the  subject  I  have  my  own  thoughts,  on  its 
subject,  the  affairs  of  the  world  and  pieces  of  perfect  good 
fortune  it  approves  of,  and  stamps  for  enviable — and  on 
the  whole  the  world  has  quite  a  right  to  treat  me  uncere- 
moniously,— I  having  begun  it.  As  for  the  '  seeing  out  of 
the  window  once  ' — those  who  knew  nothing  about  us  but 
our  names  had  better  think  that  was  the  way,  than  most 
others ;  and  the  half-dozen  who  knew  a  little  more,  may 
hear  the  true  account  if  they  please,  when  they  hear  any- 
thing— those  who  know  all,  all  necessary  to  know,  will  un- 
derstand my  137  letters  here  and  my  54  visits  .  .  see,  I 
write  as  if  this  were  to  be  pleaded  to-night — would  it  were ! 
As  if  you  had  to  write  the  meeting  between  Hector  and 
Andromache,  not  the  parting !  By  the  way,  dearest,  what 
enchanted  poetry  all  your  translations  for  Miss  Thomson 
are — as  Carry le  says !  '  Nobody  can  touch  them,  get  at 
them! '  How  am  I  the  better  for  Nonnus,  and  Apuleius? 
Now,  do  you  serve  me  well  there? 

I  shall  hear  to-morrow  of  Mrs.  Jameson's  etchings  and 
discourses?  and  more  good  news  of  you,  darling?  I  am 
quite  well  to-day — going  out  with  my  sister  to  dine  next 
door — then,  over  to-morrow,  and  the  letter,  will  come  Sat- 
urday, my  day. 

Bless  you,  my  own  best,  dearest — I  am  your  own. 

B. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  March  27,  1846.] 

Not  the  *  dexterous  hand ' — say  rather  the  good  cause. 
For  the  rest,  when  you  turn  into  a  dog  and  lie  down,  are 
you  not  afraid  that  a  sorcerer  should  go  by  and  dash  the 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BABBETT  9 

water  and  speak  the  formula  of  the  old  tales.  '  If  thou 
wert  born  a  dog,  remain  a  dog,  but  if  not  .  .  If  not  .  . 
ivhat  is  to  happen?  Amine  whipped  her  enchanted  hounds 
ever  so  often  in  the  day  .  .  ah,  what  nonsense  happens ! 

Dear,  dearest,  how  you  'take  me  with  guile,'  or  with 
stronger  than  guile,  .  .  with  that  divine  right  you  have, 
of  talking  absurdities !  You  make  it  clear  at  last  that  I  am 
so  much  the  better  for  being  bad  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  .  shall  I 
laugh?  can  I?  is  it  possible?  The  words  go  too  deep  .  .  . 
as  deep  as  death  which  cannot  laugh  !  And  I  am  forbidden 
to  '  dwell '  on  the  meaning  of  them — I !  There  are  'Ts  '  to 
match  yours ! 

I  shall  have  the  right  of  doing  one  thing,  .  .  (passing 
to  my  rights).  I  shall  hold  to  the  right  of  remembering 
to  my  last  hour,  that  you,  who  might  well  have  passed  by 
on  the  other  side  if  we  two  had  met  on  the  road  when  I 
was  riding  at  ease,  .  .  did  not  when  I  was  in  the  dust.  I 
choose  to  remember  that  to  the  end  of  feeling.  As  for  men, 
you  are  not  to  take  me  to  be  quite  ignorant  of  what  they 
are  worth  in  the  gross.  The  most  blindfolded  women  may 
see  a  little  under  the  folds  .  .  and  I  have  seen  quite  enough 
to  be  glad  to  shut  my  eyes.  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  I 
never  thought  that  any  man  whom  I  could  love,  would 
stoop  to  love  me,  even  if  I  attained  so  far  as  the  sight  of 
such.  Which  I  never  attained  .  .  until  .  .  until !  Then, 
that  you  should  care  for  me.  !  !  Oh— I  hold  to  my  rights, 
though  you  overcome  me  in  most  other  things.  And  it  is 
my  right  to  love  you  better  than  I  could  do  if  I  were  more 
worthy  to  be  loved  by  you. 

Mrs.  Jameson  came  late  to-day,  .  .  at  five — and  was 
hurried  and  could  not  stay  ten  minutes,  .  .  but  showed 
me  her  etchings  and  very  kindly  left  a  '  Dead  St.  Cecilia ' 
which  I  admired  most,  for  its  beautiful  lifelessness.  She 
is  not  to  be  in  town  again,  she  said,  till  a  month  has  gone 
— a  month,  at  least.  Oh — and  '  quite  uneasy  '  she  was, 
about  my  £  cold  hands  ' — yesterday — she  thought  she  had 
put  me  to  death  with  over-talking ! — which  made  me  smile 


10    THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNING  [March  27 

a  little  .  .  '  sub-ridens. '  But  she  is  very  kind  and  affec- 
tionate; and  you  were  right  to  teach  me  to  like  her — and 
now,  do  you  know,  I  look  in  vain  for  the  '  steely  eyes '  I 
fancied  I  saw  once,  and  see  nothing  but  two  good  and  true 
ones. 

Well — here  is  an  end  till  Saturday.  It  is  too  late  .  . 
or  I  could  go  on  writing  .  .  which  I  do  not  hate  indeed. 
Talking  of  hating,  .  .  .  '  what  you  love  entirely  '  means 
that  you  love  entirely  .  .  and  no  more  and  no  less.  If  it 
did  not  mean  so,  I  should  be  unhappy  about  the  mistake 
.  .  but  to  '  love  entirely  '  is  not  a  mistake  and  cannot  pass 
for  one  either  on  earth  or  in  Heaven.  May  God  bless  you, 
ever  dearest.  Such  haste  I  write  in — as  if  the  angels  were 
running  up  Jacob's  ladder! — or  down  it,  rather,  at  this 
close ! 

Your  own 
Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  March  27,  1846.] 

'  Qui  laborat,  orat ' ;  so  they  used  to  say,  and  in  that 
case  I  have  been  devotional  to  a  high  degree  this  morning. 
Seven  holes  did  I  dig  (to  keep  up  inversions  of  style) — 
seven  rose-trees  did  I  plant — ('  Brennus  ' — and  '  Madame 
Lafarge  ' !  are  two  names  I  remember ;  very  characteristic 
of  old  Gaul  and  young  France—)  and,  for  my  pains,  the 
first  fruits,  first  blossoms  some  two  or  three  months  hence, 
will  come,  and  will  go  to  dearest  Ba  who  first  taught  me 
what  a  rose  really  ivas,  how  sweet  it  might  become  with 
superadded  memories  of  the  room  and  the  chair  and  the 
vase,  and  the  cutting  stalks  and  pouring  fresh  water  .  . 
ah,  my  own  Ba ! — And  did  you  think  to  warn  me  out  of  the 
Flush-simile  by  the  hint  of  Amine 's  privilege  which  it 
would  warrant?  If  the  '  ever  so  much  whipping  '  should 
please  you !  .  .  .  And  beside  it  was,  if  I  recollect,  for  the 
creature's  good,  those   poor  imprisoned  sisters,  all  the 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  11 

time.  Moreover,  I  ioas  '  born  '  all  this  and  more,  that  you 
will  know,  at  least — and  only  walked  glorious  and  erect  on 
two  legs  till  dear  Siren,  an  old  friend  of,  and  deep  in  the 
secrets  of  Circe,  sprinkled  the  waters  .  .  perhaps  on  those 
roses — No,  before  that! — 

Well,  to-morrow  comes  fast  now — and  I  shall  trust  to 
be  with  you  my  beloved — and,  first,  you  are  to  show  me 
the  portrait,  remember. 

I  am  glad  you  like  Mrs.  Jameson — do  not  /like  her  all 
the  better,  much  the  better !  But  it  is  fortunate  I  shall  not 
see  her  by  any  chance  just  now — she  would  be  sure  to  be- 
gin and  tell  me  about  you — and  if  my  hands  did  not  turn 
cold,  my  ear-tips  would  assuredly  turn  red.  I  daresay 
that  St.  Cecilia  is  the  beautiful  statue  above  her  tomb  at 
Home;  covered  with  a  veil — affectingly  beautiful;  I  well 
remember  how  she  lies. 

Now  good-bye ;  and  to-morrow !  Bless  you,  ever  dear, 
dearest  Ba — 

Your  own 
R. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday  Afternoon. 

Now,  I  think,  if  I  had  been  '  pricked  at  the  heart '  b, 
dear,  dearest  Ba's  charge  yesterday, — if  I  did  not  certainly 
know  why  it  might  sometimes  seem  better  to  be  silent  than 
to  speak, — should  I  not  be  found  taking  out  three  or  four 
sheets  of  paper,  and  beginning  to  write,  and  write !  My 
own,  dearest  and  best,  it  is  not  so, — not  wrong,  my  heart's 
self  tells  me, — and  tells  you!  But  for  the  rest  there  shall 
never  pass  a  day  till  my  death  wherein  I  will  not  write  to 
you,  so  long  as  you  let  me,  excepting  those  days  I  may 
spend  with  you,  partly  or  .  .  altogether —  Love,  shall  I 
have  very,  very  long  to  be  hating  to  write,  yet  writing? 

You  see  sometimes  how  I  talk  to  you, — even  in  mere 
talking  what  a  strange  work  I  make  of  it.  I  go  on  think- 
ing quite  another  way ;  so,  generally,  I  often  have  thought, 


12    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  27 

the  little  I  have  written,  lias  been  an  unconscious  scrawling 
with  the  mind  fixed  somewhere  else:  the  subject  of  the 
scrawl  may  have  previously  been  the  real  object  of  the 
mind  on  some  similar  occasion,- — the  very  thing  which  then 
to  miss,  (finding  in  its  place  such  another  result  of  a  still 
prior  fancy -fit) — which  then  to  see  escape,  or  find  escaped, 
was  the  vexation  of  the  time !  One  cannot,  (or  /  cannot) 
finish  up  the  work  in  one's  mind,  put  away  the  old  projects 
and  take  up  new.  Well,  this  which  I  feel  on  so  many  oc- 
casions, do  you  wonder  if — if ! 

I  should  write  on  this  for  ever !  It  is  all  so  strange, 
such  a  dream  as  you  say ! 

Indeed,  love,  the  picture  is  not  like,  nor  c  flattered '  by 
any  means,  yet  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  I  cannot  be  cross 
with  it — there  is  a  touch  of  truth  in  the  eyes, — would  one 
have  believed  that  ?  I  know  my  own  way  with  portraits ; 
how  I  let  them  master  eventually  my  most  decided  sense 
of  their  unlikeness — and  this  finds  me  very  prepared — still 
— it  seems  already  more  faithful  than  last  night  .  .  how 
do  I  determine  where  the  miraculousness  ends?  (My 
Mother  was  greatly  impressed  by  it — and  my  sister,  com- 
ing (from  my  room)  into  the  room  where  I  was  with  a 
visitor,  before  whom  she  could  not  speak  English,  said 
'  £  molto  bella '  / ) 

Here  is  my  '  proof ' — I  found  it  as  I  expected.  I  fear 
I  must  put  you  to  that  trouble  of  sending  the  other  two 
acts — I  hate  to  think  of  so  troubling  you !  But  do  not, 
Ba,  hurry  yourself — nor  take  extraordinary  pains — what  is 
worth  your  pains  in  these  poor  things?  I  like  Luria 
better  now, — it  may  do,  now, — probably  because  it  must; 
but,  as  I  said  yesterday,  I  seriously  hope  and  trust  to  shew 
my  sense  of  gratitude  for  what  is  promised  my  future  life, 
by  doing  some  real  work  in  it:  work  of  yours,  as  through 
you.  I  have  felt,  not  for  the  first  time  now,  but  from  the 
beginning  vexed,  foolishly  vexed  perhaps,  that  I  could  not 
without  attracting  undesirable  notice,  '  dedicate, '  in  the 
true  sense  of  the  word,  this  or  the  last  number  to  you. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  13 

But  if  any  really  worthy  performance  should  follow,  then 
my  mouth  will  be  unsealed.     All  is  forewritten ! 

I  wonder  if  you  have  ventured  down  this  sunny  after- 
noon— tell  me  how  you  are,  and,  once  again,  do  not  care 
about  those  papers ;  any  time  will  do. 

So,  bless  you,  my  own — my  all-beloved  Ba. 

Your  B.  B. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  March  30,  1846.] 

Dearest,  I  have  been  trying  your  plan  of  thinking  of 
you  instead  of  writing,  to-day,  and  the  end  is  that  I  am 
driven  to  the  last  of  the  day  and  have  scarcely  room  in  it 
to  write  what  I  would.  Observe  if  you  please,  how  badly 
'the  system  works,'  as  the  practical  people  say.  Then 
Mr.  Kenyon  came  and  talked, — asked  when  I  had  seen 
you,  .  .  and  desired,  '  if  ever  I  saw  you  again,'  (ah,  what 
an  '  if  ever  ' !)  that  I  would  enquire  about  the  '  blue  lilies  ' 
.  .  which  I  satisfied  him  were  of  the  right  colour,  on  your 
authority. 

But,  to  go  to  the  '  Tragedy  ' — I  am  not  to  admire  it  .  . 
am  I?  And  you  really  think  that  anyone  who  can  think 
.  .  feel  .  .  could  help  such  an  admiration,  or  ought  to  try 
to  help  it?  Now  just  see.  It  is  a  new  work  with  your 
mark  on  it.  That  is  .  .  it  would  make  some  six  or  sixteen 
works  for  other  people,  if  '  cut  up  into  little  stars  ' — rolled 
out  .  .  diluted  with  rain-water.  But  it  is  your  work  as  it 
is — and  if  you  do  not  care  for  that,  /care,  and  shall  remem- 
ber to  care  on.  It  is  a  work  full  of  power  and  significance, 
and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  (not  that  it  is  wise  to  make  com- 
parisons, but  that  I  want  you  to  understand  how  I  am  im- 
pressed !) — I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  if  I  knew  you  now  first 
and  only  by  these  two  productions,  .  .  '  Luria '  and  the 
'  Tragedy,  '  .  .  I  should  not  involuntarily  attribute  more 
power  and  a  higher  faculty  to  the  writer  of  the  last — I 


14    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  30 

should,  I  think — yet  '  Luria '  is  the  completer  work  .  .  I 
know  it  very  well.  Such  thoughts,  you  have,  in  this  second 
part  of  the  Tragedy  !  a  '  Soul's  Tragedy  '  indeed !  No  one 
thinks  like  you — other  poets  talk  like  the  merest  women  in 
comparison.  Why  it  is  full  of  hope  for  both  of  us,  to  look 
forward  and  consider  what  you  may  achieve  with  that  com 
bination  of  authority  over  the  reasons  and  the  passions, 
and  that  wonderful  variety  of  the  plastic  power!  But  I 
am  going  to  tell  you — Certainly  I  think  you  were  right 
(though  you  know  I  doubted  and  cried  out)  I  think  now 
you  were  right  in  omitting  the  theological  argument  you 
told  me  of,  from  this  second  part.  It  would  clog  the 
action,  and  already  I  am  half  inclined  to  fancy  it  a  little 
clogged  in  one  or  two  places — but  if  this  is  true  even,  it 
would  be  easy  to  lighten  it.  Your  Ogniben  (here  is  my 
only  criticism  in  the  ways  of  objection)  seems  to  me  almost 
too  wise  for  a  crafty  worldling — tell  me  if  he  is  not !  Such 
thoughts,  for  the  rest,  you  are  prodigal  of!  That  about 
the  child,  ...  do  you  remember  how  you  brought  it  to 
me  in  your  first  visit,  nearly  a  year  ago? 

Nearly  a  year  ago !  how  the  time  passes !  If  I  had 
'  done  my  duty '  like  the  enchanted  fish  leaping  on  the 
gridiron,  and  seen  you  never  again  after  that  first  visit, 
you  would  have  forgotten  all  about  me  by  this  day.  Or  at 
least,  '  that  prude  '  I  should  be !  Somewhere  under  your 
feet,  I  should  be  put  down  by  this  day !  Yes !  and  my  en- 
chanted dog  would  be  coursing  '  some  small  deer '  .  . 
some  unicorn  of  a  f  golden  horn, '  .  .  (not  the  Kilmansegg 
gold !)  out  of  hearing  if  I  should  have  a  mind  to  whistle 
ever  so,  .  .  but  out  of  harm's  way  perhaps  besides. 

Well,  I  do  think  of  it  sometimes  as  you  see.  Which 
proves  that  I  love  you  better  than  myself  by  the  whole 
width  of  the  Heavens;  the  sevenfold  Heavens.  Yet  I 
think  again  how  He  of  the  heavens  and  earth  brought  us 
together  so  wonderfully,  holding  two  souls  in  His  hand. 
If  my  fault  was  in  it,  my  will  at  least  was  not.  Believe  it 
of  me,  dear  dearest,  that  I  who  am  as  clear-sighted  as  other 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  15 

women,  .  .  and  not  more  humble  (as  to  the  approaches 
of  common  men),  was  quite  resolutely  blind  when  you  came 
— I  could  not  understand  the  possibility  of  that.  It  was 
too  much  .  .  too  surpassing.  And  so  it  will  seem  to  the 
end.  The  astonishment,  I  mean,  will  not  cease  to  be.  It 
is  my  own  especial  fairy-tale  .  .  from  the  spells  of  which, 
may  you  be  unharmed  .  .  !  How  one  writes  and  writes 
over  and  over  the  same  thing !  But  day  by  day  the  same 
sun  rises,  .  .  over,  and  over,  and  nobody  is  tired.  May 
God  bless  you,  dearest  of  all,  and  justify  what  has  been  by 
what  shall  be,  .  .  and  let  me  be  free  of  spoiling  any  sun  of 
yours !  Shall  you  ever  tell  me  in  your  thoughts,  I  won- 
der, to  get  out  of  your  sun?  No — no — Love  keeps  love  too 
safe !  and  I  have  faith,  you  see,  as  a  grain  of  mustard-seed ! 

Your  own 

Ba. 
Say  Jioiv  you  are  .  .  mind! 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  March  30,  1846.] 

'  The  system,'  Ba? — Were  you  to  stop  writing,  as  if  for 
my  reasons?  Could  J  do  without  your  letters,  on  any  pre- 
tence? You  say  well — it  was  a  foolish  fancy,  and  now — 
have  done  with  it ! 

And  do  you  think  you  could  have  refused  to  see  me 
after  that  visit?  I  mean,  do  you  think  I  did  not  resolve  so 
to  conduct  myself;  so  to  '  humble  myself  and  go  still  and 
softly  all  my  days  ' ;  that  your  suspicion  should  needs  in- 
sensibly clear  up  .  .  (if  it  had  been  so  pre-ordained,  and 
that  no  more  was  in  my  destiny,)  and  at  last  I  should 
have  been  written  down  your  friend  for  ever,  and  let  come 
and  stay,  on  that  footing.  But  you  really  think  the  con- 
firmation of  that  sentence  must  have  been  attended  with 
such  an  effect — that  I  should  have  forgotten  you  or  so  re- 
membered you?    You  think  that  on  the  strength  of  such  a 


16    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  30 

love  as  that,  I  would  have  ventured  a  month  of  my  future 
life  .  .  much  less,  the  whole  of  it?  Not  you,  Ba, — my 
dearest,  dearest! 

How  you  surprise  me  (what  ever  may  you  think)  by 
liking  that  '  Tragedy  ' !  It  seems  as  if,  having  got  out  of 
the  present  trouble,  I  shall  never  fall  into  its  fellow — I  will 
strike,  for  the  future,  on  the  glowing,  malleable  metal; 
afterward,  filing  is  quite  another  process  from  hammering, 
and  a  more  difficult  one.  Note,  that  '  filing  '  is  the  wrong 
word,-— and  the  rest  of  it,  the  wrong  simile, — and  all  of  it, 
in  its  stupid  wrongness  very  characteristic  of  what  I  try 
to  illustrate — oh,  the  better,  better  days  are  before  me  there 
as  in  all  else !  But,  do  you  notice  how  stupid  I  am  to-day? 
My  head  begins  again — that  is  the  fact ;  it  is  better  a  good 
deal  than  in  the  morning — its  ceconomy  passes  my  compre- 
hension altogether,  that  is  the  other  fact.  With  the  deep 
joy  in  my  heart  below — this  morning's  letter  here — what 
does  the  head  mean  by  its  perversity  ?  I  will  go  out  pres- 
ently and  walk  it  back  to  its  senses. 

Dearest,  did  you  receive  my  '  proof '  this  morning? 
Do  not  correct  nor  look  at  it,  nor  otherwise  trouble  yourself 
— there  is  plenty  of  time.  But  what  day  is  ours  to  be?  Of 
that  you  say  nothing,  and  of  my  poems  a  great  deal,  '  O 
you  inverter ! '  But  I  am,  rather,  a  reverter — and  you  shall 
revert,  and  mind  the  natural  order  of  things,  and  tell  me 
first  of  all — (in  to-night's  letter,  dearest?) — that  it  is  to  be 
on — ? 

Now  let  me  kiss  you  here — my  own  Ba !  Being  stupid 
makes  some  difference  in  me — I  am  no  poet,  nor  prose- 
writer,  nor  rational  '  Christian,  pagan  nor  man '  this  after- 
noon— but  I  am  now — as  yesterday — as  the  long '  year  ago  ' 
— your  own,  utterly  your  own!  May  God  bless  you!  (I 
wondered  yesterday  if  you  had  gone  downstairs — 'no*  I 
infer !) 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  17 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday. 

Dearest,  I  send  you  back  the  two  parts  of  the  '  Soul's 
Tragedy,'  and  the  proof.  On  a  strip  of  paper  are  two  or 
three  inanities  in  the  form  of  doubts  I  had  in  reading  the 
first  part.  I  think  upon  the  whole  that  you  owe  me  all 
gratitude  for  the  help  of  so  much  high  critical  wisdom — of 
which  this  paper  is  a  fair  proof  and  expression. 

The  proof,  the  printed  '  Luria  '  I  mean,  has  more  than 
pleased  me.  It  is  noble  and  admirable ;  and  grows  greater, 
the  closer  seen.  The  most  exceptionable  part,  it  seems  to 
me,  is  Domizia's  retraction  at  the  last,  for  which  one  looks 
round  for  the  sufficient  motive.  But  the  impression  of  the 
whole  work  goes  straight  to  the  soul — it  is  heroic  in  the 
best  sense. 

I  write  in  such  haste.  Oh — I  should  have  liked  to 
have  read  again  the  second  part  of  the  '  Tragedy,'  but  dare 
not  keep  it  though  you  give  me  leave.  I  think  of  the 
printers — and  you  will  let  me  have  the  proof,  in  this  case 
also. 

Your  letter  shall  be  answered  presently.  Your  sister's 
word  about  the  picture  proves  very  conclusively  how  won- 
derfully like  it  must  be  as  a  portrait !  That  would  settle 
the  question  to  acy  '  Eoyal  Commission '  in  the  world — 
only  we  need  not  go  so  far. 

Dearest  I  end  here — to  begin  again  in  another  half  hour. 
Ah — and  you  promise,  you  promise — 

No  time — but  ever  your  own. 

Ba. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  March  31,  1846.] 

Ah.  now,  now,  you  see  !    Held  up  in  that  light,  it  is  '  a 
foolish  fancy,'  and  unlawful,  besides!     'Not  on  any  pre- 
tence '  will  you  do  without  letters  .  .  you  !    And  you  count 
Vol.  II.— 8 


18    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  30 

it  among  the  imaginations  of  your  heart  that /could  do 
without  them  better  perhaps  .  .  I  .  .  to  whom  they  are 
sun,  air,  and  human  voices,  at  the  very  lowest  calculation? 
Why  seriously  you  dont  imagine  that  your  letters  are  not 
a  thousand  times  more  to  me,  than  letters  ever  in  the  world 
were  before,  .  .  since  '  Heaven  first  brought  them  to  some 
wretch's  aid.'     If  you  do,  that  is  the  foolishest  fancy  of  all. 

So  foolish  as  to  be  unspeakable.  We  will  '  have  done 
with  it,'  as  you  say.  I  only  'revert'  and  innocently, — I 
do  not  reproach,  even  ignorantly, — I  am  grateful  rather. 
What  you  said  in  the  letter  this  morning  made  me  grate- 
ful, .  .  and  oh,  so  glad!  so  glad!  what  you  said,  I  mean, 
of  writing  to  me  on  every  day  that  we  did  not  meet  on 
otherwise.  That  promise  seemed  to  bring  us  nearer  (see 
how  I  think  of  letters!),  nearer  than  another  word  could, 
though  you  went  for  it  to  the  end  of  the  universe,  .  .  that 
other  word.  So  I  accept  the  promise  as  a  promise  of  pure 
gold,  and  thank  you,  as  pure  gold  too,  which  you  are,  or 
rather  far  above.  Only  my  own  dearest,  you  shall  not 
write  long  letters  .  .  long  letters  are  out  of  the  agreement 
.  .  I  never  feel  the  need  of  length  as  long  as  the  writing  is 
there  .  .  just  the  little  shred  of  the  Koran,  to  be  gathered 
up  reverently  .  .  (Inshallah!) — and  then,  you  shall  not 
write  at  all  when  you  are  not  well  .  .  no,  you  shall  not. 
So  remember  from  henceforth  !  Shall  I  whip  my  enchanted 
dog  when  he  is  so  good  and  true? — not  to  say  that  the  tags 
of  the  lashes  (do  you  call  them  tags  ?)  would  swing  round 
and  strike  me  on  the  shoulders?  Dearest,  you  are  the 
best,  kindest  in  the  world — such  a  very,  very,  very  '  little 
lower  than  the  angels ! '  If  ever  I  could  take  advantage  of 
your  goodness  and  tenderness,  to  teaze  and  vex  you,  .  t 
what  should  /  be,  I  have  been  seriously  enquiring  to-day, 
head  on  hand,  when  I  had  sent  away  c  Luria. '  For  I  sent 
it  away,  and  the  '  Tragedy  '  with  it,  and  I  hope  you  will 
have  all  to-morrow  morning  at  the  furthest,  .  .  before  you 
get  this  letter.     There  was  a  note  too  in  the  parcel. 

As  to  dedications  .  .  .  believe  me  that   I  would  not 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKKETT  19 

have  them  if  I  could  .  .  that  is,  even  if  there  were  no  dan- 
gers. I  could  not  bear  to  have  words  from  you  which  the 
world  might  listen  to  .  .  I  mean,  that  to  be  commended 
of  you  in  that  way,  on  thai  ground,  would  make  me  feel 
cold  to  the  heart.  Oh  no,  no,  no !  It  is  better  to  have  the 
proof-sheet  as  I  had  it  this  morning :  it  is  the  better  glory 
.  .  as  glory  ! 

'  Not  worthy  of  my  pains  '  .  .  you  are  right !  But  in- 
finitely worthy  of  my  pleasures — such  pleasure  as  I  could 
gather  from  nothing  else,  except  from  your  letters  and 
your  very  presence.  Do  you  think  that  anything  beside  in 
the  whole  world  could  bring  pleasure  to  me,  as  pleasure 
goes,.  .  .  anything  like  reading  your  poetry?  My  '  pains  ' 
indeed !  It  is  a  felicitous  word — '  je  vous  en  fais  mon 
compliment. ' 

And  all  this  time,  while  I  write  lightly,  you  are  not 
well  perhaps — you  were  unwell  when  you  wrote  to  me; 
you  were  unwell  a  little  yesterday  even.  Say  how  you  are 
to-morrow — do  not  forget.  For  the  cause  of  the  unwell- 
ness,  I  see  it,  if  you  do  not.  It  was  the  proof-correcting — 
I  expected  that  you  would  be  unwell — it  is  no  worse  than 
was  threatened  to  my  thoughts.  The  comfort  is  that  all 
this  wrong  work  is  coming  to  an  end,  and  that  it  is  cove- 
nanted between  us  for  you  to  rest  absolutely  from  henceforth. 
Say  how  you  are,  dearest  dearest.  And  walk,  walk.  For 
me,  I  have  not  been  downstairs.  It  has  been  cold — too 
cold  for  that,  I  thought. 

Oh — but  I  wanted  to  say  one  thing !  That  wonderful 
picture,  which  is  not  much  like  a  unicorn  or  even  '  a 
whale '  .  .  but  rather  more  perhaps  than  like  me,  you 
may  keep  for  weeks  or  months,  if  you  choose;  if  it  con- 
tinues '  not  to  make  you  cross.'  Because  it  does  not  flat- 
ter, and  because  you  do  not  flatter  (in  such  equal  pro- 
portions !) :  the  sympathy  accounts  for  the  liking  .  .  or 
absence  of  dislike;  on  your  part. 

Now  I  must  end.  Thursday  is  our  day,  I  think: — and 
it  is  easier  to  say  '  Thursday  '  on  Monday  than  on  Satur- 


20    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Mabch8C 

day  .  .  a  discovery  of  mine,  that,  as  good  as  Faraday's 
last! 

Say  how  you  are.     Do  not  forget.     I  had  to  say  .... 
What  I  cannot,  to-night. 

But  I  am  your  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  March  31,  1846.] 

Dear,  dear,  Ba,  what  shall  I  say  or  not  say  ?  On  a  kind 
of  principle,  I  have  tried  before  this  to  subdue  the  expres- 
sion of  gratitude  for  the  material,  worldly  good  you  do  me 
— for  my  poor  store  of  words  would  all  pay  themselves 
away  here,  at  the  beginning,  and  so  leave  the  higher, 
peculiar,  Bas  own  gifts  even  without  a  cry  of  achnowledg- 
ment,  not  to  say  of  thanks.  But  somehow  you,  you  my 
dearest,  my  Ba,  look  out  of  all  imaginable  nooks  and 
crevices  in  the  materiality — I  see  you  thro'  your  goodness, 
— I  cannot  distinguish  between  your  acts  now, — the  greater, 
indeed,  and  the  lesser !     Which  is  the  '  lesser  '  ?      With  you 

all  their  heap  of  work  seems  no  more  than .      (I  cannot 

even  think  of  what  may  serve  for  some  lesser  act  of  kind- 
ness !  That  is  just  what  I  wanted  to  say — '  the  effect  de- 
fective comes  by  cause '  here — there  is  no  *  lesser '  bless- 
ing in  your  power,  as  I  said !) 

Now,  darling, — it  is  late  in  the  afternoon,  as  posts  go 
— I  have  been  out  all  the  morning  in  town,  and  while  I  was 
happy  with  one  letter  (found  waiting  my  return) — the 
parcel  comes — so  I  will  just  say  this  much,  (this  little, 
this  least) — this  word  now— and  by  to-night  all  shall  be 
corrected,  I  hope,  and  got  rid  of  fairly.  And  to-morrow, 
I  will  have  you  to  myself,  my  best  one,  and  will  write  till 
you  cry  out  against  me.  I  go  now.  God  bless  you  and 
reward  you — prays  your  very  own  B.  B. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  21 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  March  31,  1846.] 

If  people  were  always  as  grateful  to  other  people  for 
being  just  kind  to  themselves,  .  .  what  a  grateful  world  Ave 
should  have  of  it !  The  actual  good  you  get  out  of  me,  may 
be  stated  at  about  two  commas  and  a  semi-colon — do  I  over- 
state it,  I  wonder?  You,  on  the  other  side,  never  overstate 
anything  .  .  never  enlarge  .  .  never  exaggerate !  In  fact, 
the  immense  '  worldly  '  advantages  which  fall  to  you  from 
me,  are  plain  to  behold.  Dearest,  what  nonsense  you  talk 
some  times,  for  a  man  so  wise !  nonsense  as  wonderful  in 
its  way  for  '  Robert  Browning '  as  the  dancing  of  polkas ! 
The  worst  is,  that  it  sets  me  wishing  impotently,  to  do 
some  really  good  helpful  thing  for  you — and  I  cannot, — 
cannot.  The  good  comes  to  me  from  you,  and  will  not  go 
back  again.  Even  the  loving  you,  .  .  which  is  all  I  can, 
.  .  have  I  not  had  to  question  of  it  again  and  again  .... 
"  Is  that  good?  "    Now  see. 

I  shall  be  anxious  to  hear  your  own  thoughts  of  the 
'  Soul's  Tragedy  '  when  you  have  it  in  print.  You  liked 
'  Luria  '  better  for  seeing  it  printed — and  I  must  have  you 
like  the  '  Tragedy '  in  proportion.  It  strikes  me.  It  is 
original,  as  they  say.  There  is  something  in  it  awakening 
.  .  striking : — and  when  it  has  awakened,  it  won't  let  you 
go  to  sleep  again  immediately. 

And  of  yourself,  not  a  word.  You  might  have  said  one 
word — but  you  have  been  in  London  which  makes  me  hope 
that  you  are  perhaps  a  little  better  .  .  or  at  least  not 
worse.  Oh,  I  do  not  hope  much  while  you  are  about  this 
printing.  You  are  sure  not  to  be  well.  That  is  to  be  ac- 
cepted as  a  necessary  consequence — it  cannot  be  otherwise. 
The  comfort  is,  that  the  whole  will  be  put  away  in  a  week 
or  ten  days,  and  that  then  I  may  set  myself  to  hope  for 
you,  as  the  roses  to  blow  in  June.     Fit  summer-business, 


22    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [March  31 

that  will  be !    And  you  will  help  me,  and  walk  and  take 
care. 

What  do  you  think  I  have  been  doing  to-day  to  Mr. 
Kenyon?  Sending  him  the  '  enchanted  poetry  '  which  such 
as  you  are  never  to  see  .  .  the  translation  about  Hector 
and  Andromache ! — yes,  really.  Yet  after  all  it  is  not  that 
I  like  him  so  much  better  than  you  .  .  I  do  not  indeed 
.  .  it  is  just  that  Miss  Thomson  and  her  book  are  of  con- 
sequence to  him,  and  that  he  hears  through  Miss  Bayley 
and  herself  of  the  attempt  here  and  the  failure  there,  .  . 
and  so,  being  interested  altogether,  he  asked  me  to  let  him 
see  what  I  did  with  Homer.  And  it  is  not  much.  Old 
Homer  laughs  his  translators  to  very  scorn  .  .  and  he  does 
not  spare  me,  for  being  a  woman.  Surpassingly  and  pro- 
foundly beautiful  that  scene  is.  I  have  tried  it  in  blank 
verse.  About  a  year  ago,  when  I  had  a  sudden  fit  of  trans- 
lating, I  made  an  experiment  on  the  first  fifty  lines  of  the 
Iliad  in  a  rhymed  measure  which  seemed  to  me  rather 
nearer  to  the  Greek  cadence  than  our  common  heroic 
verse.     Listen  to  what  I  remember — 

Thus  he  spake  in  his  prayer  :  and  Apollo  gave  ear  to  the  whole ; 
And  came  down  from  the  steep  of  Olympus,  with  wrath  in  his  soul; 
On  his  shoulder  the  bow,  and  the  quiver  fast  woven  by  fate, 
And  the  darts  hurtled  on,  as  he  trod,  with  the  thrill  of  his  hate 
And  the  step  of  his  godhead.     Like  night  did  he  travel  below — 
And  he  sate  down  afar  from  the  ships,  and  drew  strong  to  the  bow — 

And  so  we  get  to  the  arrows  you  talked  of  .  .  ah,  do 
you  remember  .  .  do  you  remember?  .  .  which  were  to 
kill  dogs  and  mules,  you  said !  But  they  didn't.  I  have 
an  enchanted  dog  ('  which  nobody  can  deny  ' !)  and  am  not 
far  to  seek  in  my  Apollo. 

To-day  I  had  a  letter  from  Miss  Mitford  who  says  that, 
inasmuch  as  she  does  not  go  to  Paris,  she  shall  come  for 
a  fortnight  to  London  and  'see  me  every  day.'!  !  No 
time  is  fixed— but  I  look  a  little  aghast.  Am  I  not  grate- 
ful and  affectionate  ?  Is  it  right  of  you,  not  to  let  me  love 
anyone  as  I  used  to  do?    Is  it  in  that  sense  that  you  kill 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  23 

the  dogs  and  mules?  Perhaps.  The  truth  is,  I  would 
rather  she  did  not  come— far  rather.  And  she  may  not, 
after  all — .  .  now  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  thoroughly. 

I  have  not  been  downstairs  to-day — the  weather  seemed 
so  doubtful.  To-morrow,  if  it  is  possible,  I  will  .  .  must 
.  .  do  it.  So  .  .  goodbye  till  the  day  after — Thursday. 
May  God  bless  you  everyday !  and  if  only  as  I  think  of 
you  .  .  you  would  not  lose  much ! 

Your  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

[Post-mark,  April  1,  1846.] 

Now — dear,  dearest  Ba — let  me  begin  the  only  way ! — 
And  so  you  are  kissed  whether  you  feel  it  or  not — through 
the  distance,  what  matter?  Dear  love,  I  return  from  town 
■ — my  writing  has  gone  away — you  remain,  and  we  are  to- 
gether— as  I  said,  it  would  be,  so  it  is  !  And  here  is  your 
letter,  and  here  are  recollections  of  all  the  letters  for  so 
long,  all  the  perfect  kindnesses  which  I  did  not  answer, 
meaning  to  answer  them  one  day — and,  one  day,  look  to 
receive  (I  may  write  you)  a  huge  sheetful  of  answers  to 
bygone  interrogatories,- — sins  of  omission  remedied  accord- 
ing to  ability — and  you  will  stare  like  a  man,  I  read  of 
somewhere,  who  asked  his  neighbour  '  how  he  fed  that 
mule  of  his,  so  as  to  keep  it  in  such  good  case?' — and  then, 
struck  by  some  other  fancy,  went  on  to  talk  of  other  mat- 
ters till  the  day's  end — when,  on  alighting  at  their  Inn 
(for  these  two  were  journeying,  and  the  talk  began  with 
the  stirrup-cup) — the  other,  who  had  been  watching  his 
opportunity,  breaking  silence  for  the  first  time,  answered 
■ — '  With  oats  and  hay.'  Observe  that  the  only  part  of  the 
story  I  parallel  is  the  surprise  at  the  end — for  I  am  not 
going  to  get  whipped  before  I  deserve,  Amine  {Ba  mine). 
At  all  events  I  will  answer  this  last  dear  note.  The  '  good ' 
you  do  me,  I  see  you  cannot  see  nor  understand  yet — there 
is  my  answer !    Here,  in  this  instance,  I  corrected  every- 


24     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [April  1 

thing, — altered,  improved.  Did  you  notice  the  alterations 
(curtailments)  in  '  Luria  '  ?  Well,  I  put  in  a  few  phrases 
in  the  second  part  of  the  other,  — where  Ogniben  speaks — 
and  hope  that  they  give  a  little  more  insight  as  to  his 
character — which  I  meant  for  that  of  a  man  of  wide  specu- 
lation and  narrow  practice, — universal  understanding  of 
men  and  sympathy  with  them,  yet  professionally  re- 
stricted claims  for  himself,  for  his  own  life.  TJiere,  was 
the  theology  to  have  come  in !  He  should  have  explained, 
'  the  belief  in  a  future  state,  with  me,  modifies  every  feel- 
ing derivable  from  this  present  life — I  consider  that  as  de- 
pendent on  foregoing  this — consequently,  I  may  see  that 
your  principles  are  perfectly  right  and  proper  to  be  em- 
braced so  far  as  concerns  this  world,  though  I  believe  there 
is  an  eventual  gain,  to  be  obtained  elsewhere,  in  either 
opposing  or  disregarding  them, — in  not  availing  myself 
of  the  advantages  they  procure.'  Do  you  see? — as  a  man 
may  not  choose  to  drink  wine,  for  his  health's  sake,  or 
from  a  scruple  of  conscience,  &c. — and  yet  may  be  a  good 
judge  of  what  wine  should  be,  how  it  ought  to  taste— some- 
thing like  this  was  meant — and  when  it  is  forgotten  almost, 
and  only  the  written  thing  with  a  shadow  of  the  meaning 
stays, — you  wonder  that  the  written  thing  gets  to  look 
better  in  time?  Do  you  think  if  I  could  forget  you,  Ba,  I 
should  not  reconcile  myself  to  your  picture — which  already 
I  love  better  than  yesterday — and  which,  to  revenge,  I 
know  I  shall  by  this  time  to-morrow  like  less,  so  far  less. 
Well,  and  then  there  is  Domizia — I  could  not  bring  her  to 
my  purpose.  I  left  the  neck  stiff  that  was  to  have  bowed 
of  its  own  accord — for  nothing  graceful  could  be  accom- 
plished by  pressing  with  both  hands  on  the  head  above !  I 
meant  to  make  her  leave  off  her  own  projects  through  love 
of  Luria.  As  it  is,  they  in  a  manner  fulfil  themselves,  so 
far  as  she  has  any  power  over  them,  and  then,  she  being 
left  unemployed,  sees  Luria,  begins  to  see  him,  having 
hitherto  seen  only  her  own  ends  which  he  was  to  further. 
Oh,  enough  of  it !    I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  and  will 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  25 

tell  you,  my  Ba,  because  it  is  simple  truth, — that  you  have 
been  '  helping '  me  to  cover  a  defeat,  not  gain  a  triumph. 
If  I  had  not  known  you  so  far  these  works  might  have 
been  the  better : — as  assuredly,  the  greater  works,  I  trust 
will  follow, — they  would  have  suffered  in  proportion!  If 
you  take  a  man  from  prison  and  set  him  free  .  .  do  you 
not  probably  cause  a  signal  interruption  to  his  previously 
all  ingrossing  occupation,  and  sole  labour  of  love,  of  carv- 
ing bone-boxes,  making  chains  of  cherry-stones,  and  other 
such  time-beguiling  operations — does  he  ever  take  up  that 
business  with  the  old  alacrity  ?  No !  But  he  begins 
ploughing,  building— (castles  he  makes,  no  bone-boxes 
now).  I  may  plough  and  build — but  there, — leave  them 
as  they  are ! 

Here  an  end  till  to-morrow — my  best  dearest.  I  am 
very  well  to-day — I  forgot  to  say  anything  yesterday. 
You  did  not  go  down  stairs,  for  all  your  good  intentions,  I 
hope — this  morning  I  mean:  observe  how  the  days  are 
made — the  mornings  are  warm  and  sunny — after  gets  up 
such  a  wind  as  now  howls — what  a  sound !  The  most  mel- 
ancholy in  the  whole  world  I  think. 

No — I  can't  do  what  I  had  set  down — keep  my  remon- 
strance and  upbraiding  on  the  Homer-subject  till  to-mor- 
row and  then  speak  arrows.  What  do  you  mean,  Ba,  by 
'  remembering '  those  lines  you  give  me — have  you  no 
more  written  down.  Quite  happy  and  original  they  are — 
but  to-morrow  this  is  waited  for — dearest,  bless  you  ever! 
your  B. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  April  3,  1846.] 

Dearest,  your  flowers  make  the  whole  room  look  like 
April,  they  are  so  full  of  colours  .  .  growing  fuller  and 
fuller  as  we  get  nearer  to  the  sun.  The  wind  was  melan- 
choly too,  all  last  night — oh,  /think  the  wind  melancholy, 


26     THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  8 

just  as  you  do, — or  more  than  you  do  perhaps  for  having 
spent  so  many  restless  days  and  nights  close  on  the  sea- 
shore in  Devonshire.  I  seem  now  always  to  hear  the  sea 
in  the  wind,  voice  within  voice !  But  I  like  a  sudden  wind, 
not  too  loud, — a  wind  which  you  hear  the  rain  in  rather 
than  the  sea — and  I  like  the  half  cloudy  half  sunny  April 
weather,  such  as  we  have  it  here  in  England,  with  a  west 
or  south  wind — I  like  and  enjoy  that;  and  remember 
vividly  how  I  used  to  like  to  walk  or  wade  nearly  up  to 
my  waist  in  the  wet  grass  or  weeds,  with  the  sun  over- 
head, and  the  wind  darkening  or  lightening  the  verdure  all 
round. 

But  none  of  it  was  happiness,  dearest  dearest.  Happi- 
ness does  not  come  with  the  sun  or  the  rain.  Since  my 
illness,  when  the  door  of  the  future  seemed  shut  and  locked 
before  my  face,  and  I  did  not  tire  myself  with  knocking 
any  more,  I  thought  I  was  happier,  happy,  I  thought,  just 
because  I  was  tranquil  unto  death.  Now  I  know  life  from 
death,  .  .  and  the  unsorrowful  life  for  the  first  time  since 
I  was  a  woman ;  though  I  sit  here  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice 
in  a  position  full  of  anxiety  and  danger.  What  matter,  .  .  . 
if  one  shuts  one's  eyes,  and  listens  to  the  birds  singing?  Do 
you  know,  I  am  glad — I  could  almost  thank  God — that  Papa 
keeps  so  far  from  me  .  .  that  he  has  given  up  coming  in 
the  evening  .  .  I  could  almost  thank  God.  If  he  were 
affectionate,  and  made  me,  or  let  me,  feel  myself  necessary 
to  him,  .  .  how  should  I  bear  (even  with  my  reason  on  my 
side)  to  prepare  to  give  him  pain  ?  So  that  the  Pisa  business 
last  year,  by  sounding  the  waters,  was  good  in  its  way  .  . 
and  the  pang  that  came  with  it  to  me,  was  also  good.  He 
feels ! — he  loves  me  .  .  but  it  is  not  (this,  I  mean  to  say)  to 
the  trying  degrees  of  feeling  and  love  .  .  trying  to  we.  Ah, 
well!  In  any  case,  I  should  have  ended  probably,  in  giv- 
ing up  all  for  you — I  do  not  profess  otherwise.  I  used  to 
think  I  should,  if  ever  I  loved  anyone — and  if  the  love  of 
you  is  different  from,  it  is  greater  than,  anything  precon- 
ceived .   .  divined. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  27 

Mrs.  Jameson,  the  other  day,  brought  out  a  theory  of 
hers  which  I  refuse  to  receive,  and  which  I  thought  to  my- 
self she  would  apply  to  me  some  day,  with  the  rest  of  what 
Miss  Mitford  calls  '  those  good-for-nothing  poets  and  poet- 
esses. '  She  maintained  (Mrs.  Jameson  did)  that  '  artis- 
tical  natures  never  learn  wisdom  from  experience — that 
sorrow  teaches  them  nothing — leaves  no  trace  at  all — that 
the  mind  is  modified  in  no  way  by  passion — suffering.' 
Which  I  disbelieved  quite,  and  ventured  to  say  on  the  other 
side,  that  although  practically  a  man  or  woman  might  not 
be  wiser,  through  perhaps  the  interception  of  a  vivid  ap- 
prehension of  the  present,  which  might  put  back  the  influ- 
ence of  the  future  over  actions,  .  .  yet  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  a  selfconscious  nature  (which  all  these  artistic 
natures  are)  and  a  sensitive  nature,  not  to  receive  some 
sort  of  modification  from  things  suffered —  '  No  ' — she 
said,  they  did  not!  she  had  known  and  loved  such — and 
they  were  like  children,  all  of  them, — essentially  imma- 
ture.' But  she  did  not  persuade  me.  What  is  inequality 
of  nature,  as  Dugald  Stewart  observed  it,  (and  did  he  not 
say  that  men  of  genius  had  lop-sided  minds?)  is  different, 
I  think,  from  immaturity  in  her  sense  of  the  word.  We 
were  talking  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Butler,  which  brought  us 
to  the  subject.  Presently  she  will  say  of  you  and  me  .  . 
'  Just  see  there !  she  meant  no  harm,  poor  thing,  I  dare 
say — but  she  acts  like  a  child!  And,  for  him,  his  is  the 
imbecility  of  most  regent  genius  .  .  such  as  I  am  to  live 
to  see  confessed  imperial,  or  I  die  a  disappointed  woman.' ! 

Do  you  hear?  /do,  distinctly.  You,  in  the  meantime, 
are  looking  at  the  c  locks '  .  .  just  as  poor  Louis  Seize  did 
when  they  were  preparing  his  guillotine. 

May  God  bless  you,  my  own  dearest — Think  of  me  a 
little — as  you  say ! 

Your 

Ba. 


28     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [Ami,  3 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Postmark,  April  3,  1846.] 

I  want  to  tell  you  a  thing  before  I  forget  it,  my  own 
Ba — a  thing  that  pleased  me  to  find  out  this  morning.  A 
few  days  ago  there  was  a  paragraph  in  the  newspaper 
about  Lord  Compton  and  his  ways  at  Rome.  His  address 
was  to  be  read  in  the  general  list  of  working-artists  kept 
for  public  inspection  at  Monaldini's  news-room,  and  the 
Earl's  self  was  to  be  found  in  fraternal  association  with 
1  young  art,'  at  board  and  sporting-place,  wearing  the  same 
distinctive  blouse  and  Louis  II.  hat  with  great  flaps ;  even 
his  hair  as  picturesquely  disordered  as  the  best  of  them — 
(the  artists,  not  flaps) — at  all  which  the  reporter  seemed 
scarcely  to  know  whether  he  ought  to  laugh  or  cry.  This 
I  read  in  the  Daily  News  with  other  gossip  about  Rome, 
last  Wednesday.  But  this  morning  a  Cambridge  Advertiser 
of  the  same  day  reaches  me — and  there,  under  the  head  of 
College  news  (after  recording  that  Mr.  A  has  been  ap- 
jjointed  to  this  vicarage,  and  Mr.  B,  licensed  to  the  other 
curacy) — one  finds  this — '  The  Earl  Compton,  M.A.  (Hon. 
1837) — is  of  great  fame  in  Rome  as  a  Painter ! ' — which  the 
other  authority  wholly  forgot  to  mention;  supposing,  no 
doubt,  all  the  love  went  to  the  blouse  and  flapped  hat 
aforesaid !  Now,  is  it  not  a  good  instance  of  that  fascina- 
tion which  the  true  life  at  Rome  (apart  from  the  stupidities 
of  the  travelling  English)  exercises  every  now  and  then  on 
susceptible  people?  The  best  thing  for  an  English  Earl 
to  do, — (who  will  be  a  Marquis  one  day) — would  be  to 
stay  here  and  vindicate  his  title  by  honest  work  with  the 
opportunities  it  affords  him  —but  if  he  cannot  rise  to  the 
dignity  of  the  best  part,  surely  this,  he  chooses,  is  better 
than  many  others — being  caught  as  some  noblemen  were 
yesterday,  for  instance,  superintending  a  dog-fight  in  some 
horrible  den  of  thieves  in  St.  Giles'.     I  don't  know,  after 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  29 

all,  why  I  tell  you  this, — but  that  amid  all  the  dull  doings 
of  the  notable  dull  ones  there,  and  their  '  honours  ' — (such 
a  wonder  of  a  man  was  Smith's  prize-man, — another  had 
got  to  be  gloriously  first  in  the  Classical  Tripos) — this  bit 
of  '  fame  at  Rome  '  seemed  like  a  break  of  blue  real  sky 
with  a  star  in  it,  shining  through  the  canvass  sham  clouds 
and  oil-paper  moons  of  a  theatre. 

Now  I  get  to  you,  my  Ba !  How  strange !  It  does  so 
happen  that  I  took  the  pen  and  laid  out  the  paper  with,  I 
really  think,  a  completer,  deeper  yearning  of  love  to  you 
than  usual  even — I  seemed  to  have  a  thousand  things  that 
I  could  say  now — and  on  touching  the  paper  .  .  see — I 
start  off  with  a  foolish  story  and  still  foolisher  comment 
as  if  there  were  no  Ba  close  at  my  head  all  the  time, 
straight  before  my  eyes  too !  So  it  is  with  me — I  give  the 
expressing  part  up  at  once !  It  must  be  understood,  in- 
ferred,— (proved,  never!)  All  nonsense,  so  I  will  stay — 
and  try  to  be  wise  to-morrow — now,  I  have  no  note  to  guide 
me  and  half  put  into  my  mouth  what  I  ought  to  say.  So, 
dear,  dear  Ba,  goodbye !  I  very  well  know  what  this  letter 
is  worth — yet  because  of  the  love  and  endeavour  rmseen, 
may  I  not  have  the  hand  to  kiss — and  without  the  glove? 
It  is  kissed,  whether  you  give  it  or  no, — for  there  are  two 
long  days  more  to  wait — and  then  comes  Monday !  Bless 
you  till  then,  and  ever,  my  dearest :  My  own  Ba — 

Your  E. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  April  4,  1846.] 

Shall  the  heir  to  a  Marquisate  'justify  his  title'  in 
these  days?  Is  not  the  best  thing  he  can  do  for  himself, 
to  forget  it  in  a  studio  at  Rome? — and  one  of  the  best 
things  he  can  do  for  his  country,  perhaps,  to  desecrate  it 
at  dog-fighting  before  the  eyes  of  all  men?  I  should  not 
like  to  have  to  justify  my  Marquisate  to  reasonable  men 


30     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [April  4 

now-a-days,  —  should  you  .  .  seriously  speaking?  It 
would  be  a  hard  task,  and  rather  dull  in  the  performance. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  noble  dog-fighters  (unconscious 
patriots !)  find  it  easy  and  congenial  occupation  down  in  St. 
Giles's,  rubbing  out  (as  in  the  old  game  of  fox  and  goose) 
figure  by  figure,  prestige  by  prestige,  the  gross  absurdity 
of  hereditary  legislators,  lords,  and  the  like.  Yet  of  the 
three  positions,  I  would  rather  be  at  Rome,  certainly  a 
man  looks  nobler  there,  is  better,  is  happier  .  .  a  good 
deal  nearer  the  angels  than  on  his  '  landed  estates  '  play- 
ing at  feudal  proprietor,  or  even  in  St.  Giles's  dog-fight- 
ing. See  what  a  republican  you  have  for  a  .  .  Ba.  Did 
you  fancy  me  capable  of  writing  such  unlawful,  disorderly 
things?  And  it  is'nt  out  of  bitterness,  nor  covetousness 
.  .  no,  indeed.  People  in  general  would  rather  be  Mar- 
quises than  Roman  artists,  consulting  their  own  wishes 
and  inclination.  I,  for  my  part,  ever  since  I  could  speak 
my  mind  and  knew  it,  always  openly  and  inwardly  pre- 
ferred the  glory  of  those  who  live  by  their  heads,  to  the 
opposite  glory  of  those  who  carry  other  people's  arms.  So 
much  for  glory.  Happiness  goes  the  same  way  to  my 
fancy.  There  is  something  fascinating  to  me,  in  that  Bo- 
hemian way  of  living  .  .  all  the  conventions  of  society  cut 
so  close  and  thin,  that  the  soul  can  see  through  .  .  be- 
yond .  .  above.  It  is  '  real  life '  as  you  say  .  .  whether 
at  Rome  or  elsewhere.  I  am  very  glad  that  you  like  sim- 
plicity in  habits  of  life — it  has  both  reasonableness  and 
sanctity.  People  are  apt  to  suffocate  their  faculties  by 
their  manners — English  people  especially.  I  admire  that 
you, — R  B, — who  have  had  temptation  more  than  enough, 
I  am  certain,  under  every  form,  have  lived  in  the  midst  of 
this  London  of  ours,  close  to  the  great  social  vortex,  yet 
have  kept  so  safe,  and  free,  and  calm  and  pure  from  the 
besetting  sins  of  our  society.  When  you  came  to  see  me 
first,  I  did  not  expect  so  much  of  you  in  that  one  respect. 
How  could  I?  You  had  lived  in  the  world,  I  knew,  and  I 
thought  .  .  .  well! — what  matter,  now,  what  I  thought? 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARBETT  31 

I  will  tell  you  instead  liow  to-day  has  gone  by  with 
me.  Not  like  yesterday,  indeed !  In  the  first  place,  I  went 
down  stairs,  walked  up  and  down  the  drawing-room  twice, 
and  finding  nobody  there  (they  were  all  having  luncheon 
in  the  dining-room)  came  up  stairs  again  .  .  .  half-way  on 
the  stairs  met  Flush,  who  having  been  asleep,  had  not 
missed  me  till  just  then,  and  was  in  the  act  of  search.  I 
was  lost  for  ever,  thought  poor  Flush.  At  least  I  think 
he  thought  so  by  his  eyes.  They  were  three  times  their 
usual  largeness — he  looked  quite  wild  .  .  and  leaped 
against  me  with  such  an  ecstasy  of  astonished  joy,  that  I 
nearly  fell  backward  down  the  stairs  (whereupon,  you 
would  have  had  to  go  to  the  Siren's  island,  dearest,  all  by 
yourself!)  After  which  escape  of  mine  and  Flushie's,  and 
when  I  had  persuaded  him  to  be  good  and  quiet  and  to  be- 
lieve that  I  was  not  my  own  ghost,  I  came  home  with  him 
and  prepared  to  see  .  . 

I  will  tell  you.  She  is  a  Mrs.  Paine  who  lives  at  Farn- 
ham,  and  learns  Greek,  and  writes  to  me  such  overcoming 
letters,  that  at  last,  and  in  a  moment  of  imprudent  reaction 
from  an  ungrateful  discourtesy  on  my  part,  I  agreed  to  see 
her  if  she  ever  came  to  London.  Upon  which,  she  comes 
directly — I  am  taken  in  my  trap.  She  comes  and  returns 
the  same  day,  and  all  to  see  me.  Well — she  had  been 
kind  to  me  .  .  and  she  came  at  two  to-day.  Do  you 
know,  .  .  for  the  first  five  minutes,  I  repented  quite? 
Dearest  .  .  she  came  just  with  the  sort  of  face  which  a 
child  might  take  to  see  a  real,  alive  lioness  at  the  Zoologi- 
cal Gardens  .  .  she  just  sate  down  on  a  chair,  and  stared. 
How  can  people  do  such  things  in  this  year  of  grace  when 
they  are  abolishing  the  cornlaws,  I  wonder?  For  my  part, 
it  was  so  unlike  anything  civilized  I  had  ever  been  used  to, 
that  I  felt  as  if  my  voice  and  breath  went  together.  It 
would  have  saved  me  to  be  able  to  stare  bach  again,  but 
that  was  out  of  my  power.  So  I  endured — and,  after  a 
pause,  ran  violently  down  a  steep  place  into  some  sort  of 
conversation    (thinking  of   your  immortal  Simpson,   and 


32     THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING    [April  4 

vowing  never  to  be  drawn  into  such  a  situation  again)  and 
in  a  little  while,  I  was  able  to  recognize  that  there  was 
nothing  worse  than  bad  manners — ignorant  manners — and 
that,  for  the  rest,  my  antagonist  was  a  young,  pretty 
woman  {rather  pretty),  enthusiastic  and  provincial,  with  a 
strong  love  for  poetry  and  literature  generally,  loving 
Carlyle  and  yourself,  (could  I  hold  out  against  that  ?)  and 
telling  me  all  her  domestic  happinesses  with  a  frankness 
which  quite  appeased  me  and  prevented  my  being  too  tired 
.  .  though  she  stayed  two  hours,  and  wasn't  you! — 

So  there  is  my  history  of  to-day  for  you !  To-morrow 
you  will  have  the  proof— and  perhaps,  /  shall!  Monday 
will  bring  a  better  thing  than  a  proof.  May  God  bless 
you,  beloved.  Say  how  you  are  .  .  to-morrow !  Mind  to 
do  it  .  .  or  I  will  not  sit  any  more  in  your  gondola-chair. 
How  can  you  make  me,  unless  I  choose? 

And  you  speak  against  my  letter  to-night?  you  shall 
not  dare  do  such  things.  It  is  a  good,  dear  letter,  and  it 
is  mine  to  call  so  .  .  and  I  knew  its  fellows  before  I  knew 
you  and  loved  them  before  I  loved  you,  and  so  you  are  not 
to  be  proud  and  scornful  and  try  to  put  them  down  '  in 
that  way.' 

Your  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  F.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[April  4,  1846.] 

Oh,  my  two  letters — and  to  turn  from  such  letters  to 
you,  to  my  own  Ba ! — I  very  well  know  I  am  not  grateful 
enough,  if  there  is  any  grace  in  that,  any  power  to  avert 
punishment,  as  one  hopes !  But  all  my  hope  is  in  future 
endeavour — it  is,  my  Ba, — this  is  earnest  truth.  And  one 
thing  that  strikes  me  on  hearing  such  prognostications  of 
Mrs.  Jameson's  opinion  on  our  subject — is  that — as  far  as 
I  am  concerned  .  .  or  yourself,  indeed — we  must  make  up 
our  mind  to  endure  the  stress  of  it,  and  of  such  opinions 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  33 

generally,  with  all  resignation  .  .  and  by  the  time  we  can 
answer, — why,  alas,  they  are  gone  and  forgotten,  so  that 
there's  no  paying  them  for  their  impertinence.  I  mean, 
that  I  do  not  expect,  as  a  foolish  fanciful  boy  might,  that 
on  the  sudden  application  of  '  Hymen's  torch  '  (to  give  the 
old  simile  one  chance  more)  your  happiness  will  blaze  out 
apparent  to  the  whole  world  lying  in  darkness,  like  a 
wondrous  '  Catherine-wheel, '  now  all  blue,  now  red,  and 
so  die  at  the  bed  amid  an  universal  clapping  of  hands — I 
trust  a  long  life  of  real  work  '  begun,  carried  on  and  ended, ' 
as  it  never  otherwise  could  have  been  (certainly  by  me  .  . 
and  if  I  dare  hope,  you,  dearest,  it  is  because  you  teach 
me  to  aspire  to  the  height) — that  the  attainment  of  all  that 
happiness  of  daily,  hourly  life  in  entire  affection,  which 
seeing  that  men  of  genius  need  rather  more — ah,  these 
words,  I  cannot  look  back  and  take  up  the  thread  of  the 
sentence, — but  I  wanted  to  say — we  will  live  the  real 
answer,  will  we  not,  dearest,  all  the  stupidity  against 
'  genius '  '  poets, '  and  the  like,  is  got  past  the  stage  of 
being  treated  with  patient  consideration  and  gentle  pity — 
it  is  too  vexatious,  if  it  will  not  lie  still,  out  of  the  way,  by 
this  time.  What  is  the  crime,  to  his  fellow  man  or  woman 
(not  to  God,  I  know  that— these  are  peculiar  sins  to  Him 
— whether  greater  in  His  eyes,  who  shall  say?) — but  to 
mankind,  wliat  is  crime  which  would  have  been  prevented 
but  for  the  '  genius  '  involved  in  it?  A  man  of  genius  ill- 
treats  his  wife — well,  take  away  the  '  genius  ' — does  he  so 
naturally  improve?  See  the  article  in  to-day's  Athenceum, 
about  the  French  Duel — far  enough  from  '  men  of  genius  ' 
these  Dujarriers  &c. — but  go  to-night  into  half  the  estami- 
nets  of  Paris,  and  see  whether  the  quarrels  over  dice  and 
some  wine  present  any  more  pleasing  matter  of  contempla- 
tion au fond.  Sin  is  sin  everywhere  and  the  worse,  I  think, 
for  the  grossness.  Being  fired  at  by  a  duellist  is  a  little 
better,  I  think  also,  than  being  struck  on  the  face  by  some 
ruffian.  These  are  extreme  cases — but  go  higher  and  it 
is  the  same  thing.  Poor,  cowardly  miscreated  natures 
Vol.  II.  -3 


34     THE  LETTEES  OP  ROBERT  BROWNING   [April  4 

abound — if  you  could  throw  '  genius  '  into  their  composi- 
tion, they  would  become  more  degraded  still,  I  suppose ! 

I  know  I  want  every  faculty  I  can  by  any  possibility 
dare — want  all,  and  much  more,  to  teach  me  what  you  are, 
my  own  Ba,  and  what  I  should  do  to  prove  that  I  am 
taught,  and  do  know. 

I  will  write  at  length  to  you  to-morrow,  my  all  beloved. 
I  am,  somehow,  overflowing  with  things  to  say,  and  the 
time  is  fearfully  short — my  proofs  have  just  arrived,  here 
they  are,  not  even  glanced  over  by  me — (To-morrow,  love ! 
not  one  thing  answered  in  my  letters,  as  when  I  read  and 
read  them  to-night  I  shall  say  to  myself).  Bless  you, 
dearest,  dearest 

K. 


K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 


Sunday. 
[April  5,  1846.  J 


It  seems  to  me  the  safest  way  to  send  back  the  proofs 
by  the  early  Monday  post :  you  may  choose  perhaps  to 
bring  the  sheet  corrected  into  town  when  you  come,  and  so 
I  shall  let  you  have  what  you  sent  me,  before  you  come  to 
take  it  .  .  though  I  thought  first  of  waiting.  To-morrow 
I  shall  force  you  to  tell  me  how  you  like  the  '  Tragedy ' 
now  !  For  my  part,  it  delights  me — and  must  raise  your 
reputation  as  a  poet  and  thinker  .  .  must.  Chiappino  is 
highly  dramatic  in  that  first  part,  and  speaks  so  finely 
sometimes  that  it  is  a  wrench  to  one's  sympathies  to  find 
him  overthrown.  Do  you  know  that,  as  far  as  the  temper 
of  the  man  goes,  I  am  acquainted  with  a  Chiappino  .  . 
just  such  a  man,  in  the  temper,  the  pride  and  the  bitterness 
.  .  not  in  other  things.  When  I  read  your  manuscript  I 
was  reminded — but  here  in  print,  it  seems  to  grow  nearer 
and  nearer.  My  Chiappino  has  tired  me  out  at  last — I 
have  borne  more  from  him  than  women  ought  to  bear  from 
men,  because  he  was  unfortunate  and  embittered  in  his 
nature  and  by  circumstances,  and  because  I  regarded  him 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABRETT  35 

as  a  friend  of  many  years.  Yet,  as  I  have  told  him,  any- 
one, who  had  not  such  confidence  in  me,  would  think  really 
ill  of  me  through  reading  the  insolent  letters  which  he  has 
thought  fit  to  address  to  me  on  what  he  called  a  pure  prin- 
ciple of  adoration.  At  last  I  made  up  my  mind  (and  shall 
keep  it  so)  to  answer  no  letter  of  the  kind.  Men  are 
ignoble  in  some  things,  past  the  conceiving  of  their  fel- 
lows. Again  and  again  I  have  said  .  .  '  Specify  your 
charge  against  me'— but  there  is  no  charge.  With  the 
most  reckless  and  dauntless  inconsistency  I  am  lifted  half- 
way to  the  skies,  and  made  a  mark  there  for  mud  pellets — 
so  that  I  have  been  excited  sometimes  to  say  quite  passion- 
ately .  .  '  If  I  am  the  filth  of  the  earth,  tread  on  me — if  I 
am  an  angel  of  Heaven,  respect  me — but  I  can't  be  both, 
remember.'  See  where  your  Chiappino  leads  you  .  .  and 
me !  Though  I  shall  not  tell  you  the  other  name  of  mine. 
Whenever  I  see  him  now,  I  make  Arabel  stay  in  the  room 
— otherwise  I  am  afraid — he  is  such  a  violent  man.  A 
good  man,  though,  in  many  respects,  and  quite  an  old 
friend.  Some  men  grow  incensed  with  the  continual  pricks 
of  ill-fortune,  like  mad  bulls :  some  grow  tame  and  meek. 

Well — I  did  not  like  the  spirit  of  the  Athenaeum  remarks 
either.  I  like  what  you  say.  These  literary  men  are  never 
so  well  pleased,  as  in  having  opportunities  of  barking 
against  one  another — and,  for  the  Athenceum  people,  if  they 
wanted  to  be  didactic  as  to  morals,  they  might  have  taken 
occasion  to  be  so  out  of  their  own  order,  and  in  their  own 
country.  And  then  to  bring  in  Balzac  so  !  The  worst  of 
Balzac  (who  has  not  a  fine  moral  sense  at  any  time,  great 
and  gifted  as  he  is),  the  very  worst  of  him,  is  his  bearing 
towards  his  literary  brothers  .  .  the  manner  in  which 
he,  who  can  so  nobly  present  genius  to  the  reverence  of 
humanity  in  scientific  men  (as  he  describes  them  in  his 
books),  always  dishonours  and  depreciates  it  in  the  man  of 
letters  and  the  poet.  See  his  '  Grand  Homme  de  Province 
a  Paris, '  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  his  works,  but  the 
remark  is  true  everywhere.     I  go  on  writing  as  if  I  were 


36     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [April  5 

not  to  see  you  directly.  It  is  past  four  oclock — and  if 
Mr.  Kenyon  does  not  come  to-day,  he  may  come  to-mor- 
row, and  find  you,  who  were  here  last  Thursday  to  his 
knowledge  ! — Half  I  fear. 

Observe  the  proof.  Since  you  have  two,  you  say,  I 
have  not  scrupled  to  write  down  on  this  ever  so  much 
improvidence,  which  you  will  glance  at  and  decide  upon 
finally. 

'  Grateful '  .  .  '  grateful '  .  .  what  a  word  that  is.  I 
never  would  have  such  a  word  on  any  proof  that  came  to 
me  for  correction.  Do  not  use  such  inapplicable  words — ■ 
do  not,  dearest !  for  you  know  very  well  in  your  under- 
standing (if  not  in  your  heart)  that  if  such  a  word  is  to  be 
used  by  either  of  us,  it  is  not  by  you.  My  word,  I  shall 
keep  mine, — I  am  '  grateful ' — you  cannot  be  '  grateful '  .  . 
for  ineffable  reasons  .  . 

'  Pour  bonnes  raisons 
Que  Ton  n'ose  dire. 
Et  que  nous  taisons. '  * 

For  the  rest,  it  is  certainly  very  likely  that  you  may 
'  want  all  your  faculties,  and  more  '  ...  to  bear  with  me 
.  .  to  support  me  with  graceful  resignation ;  and  who  can 
tell  whether  I  may  not  be  found  intolerable  after  all? 

By  the  way  (talking  of  St.  Catherine's  wheels  and  the 
like  torments)  you  wrote  '  gag  '  .  .  did  you  not?  .  .  where 
the  proof  says  '  gadge ' — I  did  not  alter  it.  More  and 
more  I  like  '  Luria. ' 

Your  Ba. 

Mr.  Kenyon  has  been  here — so  our  Monday  is  safe, 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  April  6,  1846.] 

I  sent  you  some  even  more  than  usual  hasty  foolish 
words, — not  caring  much,  however — for  dearest  Ba  shall 
have  to  forgive  my  shortcomings  every  hour  in  the  day, — 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  37 

it  is  her  destiny,  and  I  began  unluckily  with  that  stupid- 
est of  all  notions, — that  about  the  harm  coming  of  genius 
&c,  so  I  fell  with  my  subject  and  we  rolled  in  the  mud 
together — pas  vrcd?  But  there  was  so  many  other  mat- 
ters alluded  to  in  your  dearest  (because  last)  letter — there 
are  many  things  in  which  I  agree  with  you  to  such  a  trem- 
blingly exquisite  exactness,  so  to  speak,  that  I  hardly  dare 
cry  out  lest  the  charm  break,  the  imaginary  oscillation 
prove  incomplete  and  your  soul,  now  directly  over,  pass 
beyond  mine  yet,  and  not  stay  !  Do  you  understand,  dear 
soul  of  my  soul,  dearest  Ba?  Oh,  how  different  it  all 
might  be !  In  this  House  of  life— where  I  go,  you  go — 
where  I  ascend  you  run  before — when  I  descend  it  is  after 
you.  Now,  one  might  have  a  piece  of  Ba,  but  a  very  little 
of  her,  and  make  it  up  into  a  lady  and  a  mistress,  and  find 
her  a  room  to  her  mind  perhaps  when  she  should  sit  and 
sing,  '  warble  eat  and  dwell '  like  Tennyson's  blackbird, 
and  to  visit  her  there  with  due  honour  one  might  wear  the 
finest  of  robes,  use  the  courtliest  of  ceremonies — and  then 
— after  a  time,  leave  her  there  and  go,  the  door  once  shut, 
without  much  blame,  to  throw  off  the  tunic  and  put  on 
Lord  Compton's  blouse  and  go  whither  one  liked — after, 
to  me,  the  most  melancholy  fashion  in  the  world.  How 
different  with  us !  If  it  were  not,  indeed — what  a  mad  folly 
would  marriage  be !  Do  you  know  what  quaint  thought 
strikes  me,  out  of  old  Bunyan,  on  this  very  subject?  He 
says  (with  another  meaning  though)  '  Who  would  keep  a 
cow,  that  may  buy  milk  at  a  penny  the  quart ' — (elegant 
allusion).  Just  so, — whoever  wants  'a  quart'  of  this 
other  comfort,  as  solace  of  whatever  it  may  be  (at  break- 
fast or  tea  time  too),  why  not  go  and  '  buy  '  the  same,  and 
having  discussed  it,  drink  claret  at  dinner  at  his  club? 
"Why  did  not  Mr.  Butler  read  Fanny  Kemble's  verses,  pay- 
ing his  penny  of  intellectual  labour,  and  see  her  play 
1  Portia  '  at  night,  and  make  her  a  call  or  ride  with  her  in 
the  middle  of  the  day — why  '  keep  the  cow  '  ?  But — don't 
you  know  they  prescribe  to  some  constitutions  the  per- 


38     THE  LETTEES  OE  EOBEET  BEOWNING   [April  6 

petual  living  in  a  cow-house?  the  breath,  the  unremitting 
influence  is  everything, — not  the  milk — (now,  Ba — Ba  is 
suddenly  vIw  xAavtufxivT]  and  Mrs.  Jameson  is  the  Gadfly — 
and  I  am  laughed  at — not  too  cruelly,  or  the  other  lock  of 
hair  becomes  mine — with  which  locks  .  .  and  not  with 
Louis  Seize  iron  knicknack  ones,  I  rather  think  I  was  oc- 
cupied last  time,  last  farewell  taking — ) 

From  all  which  I  infer — that  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow ! 
Yes,  or  I  should  not  have  the  heart  to  be  glad  and  absurd. 

Well,  to-morrow  makes  amends — dear,  dear  Ba !  "Why 
do  you  persist  in  trying  to  turn  my  head  so?  It  does  not 
turn,  I  look  the  more  steadfastly  at  the  feet  and  the  ground, 
for  all  your  crying  and  trying !  But  something  shocking 
might  happen — would  happen,  if  it  were  not  written  that 
I  am  to  get  nothing  but  good  from  Ba, — and  wlio,  who 
began  calling  names — who  used  the  word  '  flatterer  '  first? 

Bless  you  my  own  dearest  flatterer — I  love  you  with 
heart  and  soul.  Are  you  downstairs  to  day  ?  it  is  warm, 
the  rain  you  like — yes  you  are  down,  I  think.  God  keep 
you  wherever  you  are ! 

Your  own. 


I  went  last  night  to  Lord  Compton's  father's  Soiree, — 
and  for  all  our  deep  convictions,  and  philosophic  rejoic- 
ing, I  assure  you  that  of  the  two  or  three  words  that  we 
interchanged — congratulation  on  the  bright  fortune  of  his 
son  formed  no  part,- — any  more  than  intelligence  about 
ordering  Regiments  to  India  whenever  I  met  the  relatives 
of  the  ordered.  And  yesterday  morning  I  planted  a  full 
dozen  more  rose-trees,  all  white — to  take  away  the  yellow- 
rose  reproach ! 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  39 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 


Monday  Morning. 
[April  6,  1846.] 


I  shall  receive  a  note  from  you  presently,  I  trust — but 
this  had  better  go  now — for  I  expect  a  friend,  and  must 
attend  to  him  as  he  wants  to  go  walking — so,  dearest — 
dearest,  take  my — last  work  I  ever  shall  send  you,  if  God 
please ! 

A  word  about  a  passage  or  two, — I  had  forgotten  to  say 
before — gadge  is  a  real  name  (in  Johnson,  too)  for  a  tor- 
turing iron — it  is  part  of  the  horror  of  such  things  that 
they  should  be  mysteriously  named, — indefinitely, — '  The 
Duke  of  Exeter's  Daughter '  for  instance  .  .  Ugh ! — Be- 
sides, am  I  not  a  rhymester?  Well,  who  knows  but  one 
may  want  to  use  such  a  word  in  a  couplet  with  '  badge ' — 
which,  if  one  reject  the  old  and  obsolete  'fadge, '  is  rhyme- 
less? 

Then  Chiappino  remarks  that  men  of  genius  usually  do 
the  reverse  .  .  of  beginning  by  dethroning  &c.  and  so  ar- 
riving with  utmost  reluctancy  at  the  acknowledgment  of  a 
natural  and  unalterable  inequality  of  Mankind — instead  of 
that,  they  begin  at  once,  he  says,  by  recognizing  it  in  their 
adulation  &c.  &c. — I  have  supplied  the  words  '  at  once/ 
and  taken  out  'virtually,'  which  was  unnecessary;  so  that 
the  parallel  possibly  reads  clearlier.  I  know  there  are 
other  things  to  say — but  at  this  moment  my  memory  is 
at  fault. 

Can  you  tell  me  Mrs.  Jameson's  address? 

My  sea-friend's  opinion  is  altogether  unfavourable  to 
the  notion  of  an  invalid's  trusting  himself  alone  in  a  mer- 
chant vessel — he  says — '  it  will  certainly  be  the  gentle- 
man's death.'  So  very  small  a  degree  of  comfort  can  be 
secured  amid  all  the  inevitable  horrors  of  dirt,  roughness, 
&c  The  expenses  are  trifling  in  any  case,  on  that  very 
account.     Any  number  of  the  Shipping  Gazette  (I  think) 


40     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [April  6 


will  give  a  list  of  all  vessels  about  to  sail,  with  choice  of 
ports — or  on  the  walls  of  the  Exchange  one  may  see  their 
names  placarded,  with  reference  to  the  Agent — or  he  will, 
himself,  (my  friend  Chas.  Walton)  do  his  utmost  with  a 
shipowner,  we  both  know,  and  save  some  expense,  per- 
haps. I  made  him  remark  the  difference  between  my  care- 
lessness of  accommodations  and  an  invalid's  proper  atten- 
tion beforehand — but  he  persisted  in  saying  nothing  can 
be  done,  nothing  effectual.  My  time  is  out — but  I  must 
bless  you  my  ever  dearest  Ba — and  kiss  you — • 

Ever  your  own. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  April  7,  1846.] 

Dearest,  it  is  not  I  who  am  a  '  flatterer  ' — and  if  I  used 
the  word  first,  it  is  because  I  had  the  right  of  it,  I  remem- 
ber, long  and  long  ago.  There  is  the  vainest  of  vanities  in 
discussing  the  application  of  such  a  word  .  .  and  so,  when 
you  said  the  other  day  that  you  '  never  flattered '  forsooth 
.  .  .  (oh  no !)  I  would  not  contradict  you  for  fear  of  the 
endless  flattery  it  would  lead  to.  Only  that  I  do  not  choose 
(because  such  things  are  allowed  to  pass)  to  be  called  on 
my  side  '  a  flatterer' — I!  That  is  too  much,  and  too  out 
of  place.  What  do  I  ever  say  that  is  like  flattery  ?  I  am 
allowed,  it  may  be  hoped,  to  admire  the  '  Lurias  '  and  the 
rest,  quite  like  other  people,  and  even  to  say  that  I  admire 
them  .  .  may  I  not  lawfully?  If  that  is  flattery  woe  to 
me!  I  tell  you  the  real  truth,  as  I  see  the  truth,  even 
in  respect  to  them  .  .  the  '  Lurias  '  .  . 

For  instance,  did  I  flatter  you  and  say  that  you  were 
right  yesterday?  Indeed  I  thought  you  as  wrong  as  pos- 
sible .  .  wonderfully  wrong  on  such  a  subject,  for  ifou  .  . 
who,  only  a  day  or  two  before,  seemed  so  free  from  con- 
ventional fallacies  .  .  so  free !  You  would  abolish  the 
punishment  of  death  too  .  .  and   put  away  wars,  I  am 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  41 

sure !  But  honourable  men  are  bound  to  keep  their  hon- 
ours clean  at  the  expense  of  so  much  gunpowder  and  so 
much  risk  of  life  .  .  that  must  be,  ought  to  be,  .  .  let  ju- 
dicial deaths  and  military  glory  be  abolished  ever  so !  For 
my  part,  I  set  all  Christian  principle  aside,  (although  if  it 
were  carried  out  .  .  and  principle  is  nothing  unless  car- 
ried out  .  .  it  would  not  mean  cowardice  but  magnanimity) 
but  I  set  it  aside  and  go  on  the  bare  social  rational  ground 
.  .  .  and  I  do  advisedly  declare  to  you  that  I  cannot  con- 
ceive of  any  possible  combination  of  circumstances  which 
could  .  .  I  will  not  say  justify,  but  even  excuse,  an  hon- 
ourable man's  having  recourse  to  the  duellist's  pistol, 
either  on  his  own  account  or  another's.  Not  only  it  seems 
to  me  horribly  wrong  .  .  but  absurdly  wrong,  it  seems  to 
me.  Also  .  .  as  a  matter  of  pure  reason  .  .  the  Parisian 
method  of  taking  aim  and  blowing  off  a  man's  head  for 
the  sins  of  his  tongue,  I  do  take  to  have  a  sort  of  judicial 
advantage  over  the  Englishman's  six  paces  .  .  throwing 
the  dice  for  his  life  or  another  man's,  because  wounded  by 
that  man  in  his  honour.  His  honour ! — Who  believes  in 
such  an  honour  .  .  liable  to  such  amends,  and  capable  of 
such  recovery  !  You  cannot,  I  think — in  the  secret  of  your 
mind.  Or  if  you  can  .  .  you,  who  are  a  teacher  of  the 
world  .  .  .  poor  world — it  is  more  desperately  wrong  than 
I  thought. 

A  man  calls  you  '  a  liar '  in  an  assembly  of  other  men. 
Because  he  is  a  calumniator,  and,  on  that  very  account,  a 
worse  man  than  you,  you  ask  him  to  go  down  with  you 
on  the  only  ground  on  which  you  two  are  equals  .  .  the 
duelling-ground,  .  .  and  with  pistols  of  the  same  length 
and  friends  numerically  equal  on  each  side,  play  at  lives 
with  him,  both  mortal  men  that  you  are.  If  it  was  pro- 
posed to  you  to  play  at  real  dice  for  the  ratification  or 
non-ratification  of  his  calumny,  the  proposition  would  be 
laughed  to  scorn  .  .  and  yet  the  chance  (as  chance)  seems 
much  the  same,  .  .  and  the  death  is  an  exterior  circum- 
stance which  cannot  be  imagined  to  have  much  virtue.     At 


42     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [April  7 

best,  what  do  you  prove  by  your  duel?  .  .  that  your  ca- 
lumniator, though  a  calumniator,  is  not  a  coward  in  the 
vulgar  sense  .  .  and  that  yourself,  though  you  may  still 
be  a  liar  ten  times  over,  are  not  a  coward  either !  '  Here 
be  proofs.' 

And  as  to  the  custom  of  duelling  preventing  insults  .  . 
why  you  say  that  a  man  of  honour  should  not  go  out  with 
an  unworthy  adversary.  Now  supposing  a  man  to  be  with- 
held from  insult  and  calumny,  just  by  the  fear  of  being 
shot  .  .  who  is  more  unworthy  than  such  a  man?  There- 
fore you  conclude  irrationally,  illogically,  that  the  system 
operates  beyond  the  limit  of  its  operations. — Oh!  I  shall 
write  as  quarrelsome  letters  as  I  choose.  You  are  wrong, 
I  know  and  feel,  when  you  advocate  the  pitiful  resources 
of  this  corrupt  social  life,  .  .  and  if  you  are  wrong,  how 
are  we  to  get  right,  we  all  who  look  to  you  for  teaching. 
Are  you  afraid  too  of  being  taken  for  a  coward?  or  would 
you  excuse  that  sort  of  fear  .  .  that  cowardice  of  coward- 
ice, in  other  men?  For  me,  I  value  your  honour,  just  as 
you  do  .  .  more  than  your  life  .  .  of  the  two  things :  but 
the  madness  of  this  foolishness  is  so  clear  to  my  eyes, 
that  instead  of  opening  the  door  for  you  and  keeping  your 
secret,  as  that  miserable  woman  did  last  year,  for  the  man 
shot  by  her  sister's  husband,  I  would  just  call  in  the  'police, 
though  you  were  to  throw  me  out  of  the  window  after- 
wards. So,  with  that  beautiful  vision  of  domestic  felicity, 
(which  Mrs.  Jameson  would  leap  up  to  see !)  I  shall  end 
my  letter — is'nt  it  a  letter  worth  thanking  for? — 

Ever  dearest,  do  you  promise  me  that  you  never  will  be 
provoked  into  such  an  act— never?  Mr.  O'Connell  vowed 
it  to  himself,  for  a  dead  man  .  .  and  you  may  to  me,  for 
a  living  woman.  Promises  and  vows  may  be  foolish  things 
for  the  most  part  .  .  but  they  cannot  be  more  foolish  than, 
in  this  case,  the  thing  vowed  against.  So  promise  and 
vow.  And  I  will  '  flatter  '  you  in  return  in  the  lawful  way 
.  .  for  you  will  '  make  me  happy  '  .  .  so  far !  May  God 
bless  you,  beloved !    It  is  so  wet  and  dreary  to-day  that  I 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  43 

I  do  not  go  down  stairs — I  sit  instead  in  the  gondola  chair 
.  .  do  you  not  see?  .  .  and  think  of  you  .  .  do  you  not 
feel?     I  even  love  you  .  .  if  that  were  worth  mentioning  .  . 

being  your  own 

Ba. 

How  good  of  you  to  write  so  on  Sunday !  to  compare 
with  my  bad ! 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  April  7,  1846.] 

They  have  just  sent  me  one  proof,  only — so  I  have  been 
correcting  everything  as  fast  as  possible,  that,  returning  it 
at  once,  a  revise  might  arrive,  fit  to  send,  for  this  that  comes 
is  just  as  bad  as  if  I  had  let  it  alone  in  the  first  instance. 
All  your  corrections  are  golden.  In  '  Luria, '  I  alter  '  little 
circle '  to  '  circling  faces  '■ — which  is  more  like  what  I 
meant.  As  for  that  point  we  spoke  of  yesterday- — it  seems 
'  past  praying  for  ' — if  I  make  the  speech  an  '  aside,'  I  com- 
mit Ogniben  to  that  opinion : — did  you  notice,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  second  part,  that  on  this  Ogniben' s  very  entry 
(as  described  by  a  bystander),  he  is  made  to  say,  for  first 
speech,  '  I  have  known  so  many  leaders  of  revolts ' — 
'laughiny  gently  to  himself?  This,  which  was  wrongly 
printed  in  italics,  as  if  a  comment  of  the  bystander's  own, 
was  a  characteristic  circumstance,  as  I  meant  it.  All 
these  opinions  should  be  delivered  with  a  '  gentle  laughter 
to  himself — but — as  is  said  elsewhere, — we  profess  and 
we  perform !     Enough  of  it — Meliora  spermnus ! 

What  am  I  to  say  next,  my  Ba?  When  I  write  my  best 
and  send  '  grateful '  to  you — you  send  my  proof  back, 
'  yXateful  (Ji)  '  Then  I  must  do  and  say  what  you  hate  .  . 
for  I  am  one  entire  gratitude  to  you,  God  knows !  May 
He  reward  you. 

It  is  late ;  bless  you  once  again,  my  dearest !  You  have 
nothing  so  much  yours  as 

B. 


44     THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [April  7 

My  mother  says  that  I  paid  only  fifteen  or  sixteen 
pounds  for  the  Venice  voyage,  and  much  less  for  the 
Naples  one — ten,  and  no  more,  she  thinks — and  I  think; 
but  that  represents  twenty — as  the  other,  twenty  five  or 
thirty  pounds,  to  a  person  unconnected  with  the  freight- 
ing party.  (In  the  first  ship,  Rothschild  sent  a  locomotive 
entire,  with  all  its  appurtenances,  for  one  article,  to 
Trieste).  Can  I  make  enquiries  for  you?  Nay,  I  ivill, 
and  at  once. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  evening. 
[Post -mark,  April  8,  1846.] 

In  my  disagree  .  .  able  letter  this  morning,  I  forgot  to 
write  how,  after  you  went  away,  and  I  came  to  read  again 
the  dedication,  I  admired  it  more  and  more — it  is  most 
graceful  and  complete.  Landor  will  be  gratified  and  grate- 
ful .  .  he,  allowably — and  only  you  shall  be  '  hateful '  .  . 
and  only  to  me,  dearest,  .  .  so  that  it  does'nt  matter  much. 
As  to  Ogniben,  you  understand  best  of  course — I  under- 
stood the  '  laughing  gently  to  himself, '  though  I  omitted 
to  notice  the  italics.  I  perfectly  understood  that  it  was 
the  bystander's  observation. 

Your  letter  came  so  late  to-night  that  I  despaired  of 
it — the  postman  fell  into  a  trance  somewhere  I  fancy,  and 
it  was  not  till  nine  oclock  that  the  knock  (equal  to  the  tap- 
ping of  a  fairy's  wand)  came  to  the  door.  Now  I  have  two 
letters  to  thank  you  for  together  .  .  for  the  dear  one  on 
Monday,  which  lay  in  the  shadow  of  your  coming,  and  so  was 
a  little,  little,  less  thought  of  than  it  could  have  been  under 
any  other  possible  circumstance  .  .  and  for  this  letter  to- 
night. Well!  and  for  Mr.  Buckingham's  voyage,  if  you 
will  and  can  conveniently,  (I  use  that  word  for  my  sake, 
not  for  your  sake — because  I  think  of  you  and  not  of  him  !) 
but  if  you  can  without  inconvenience  make  enquiries  about 
these  vessels,  why  I  shall  be  glad,  and  shall  set  it  to  your 
account  as  one  goodness  more.     It  would  be  easy  for  him 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  45 

(and  you  should  have  done  it,  in  your  voyage)  to  take  with 
him  those  potted  meats  and  portable  soups  and  essences 
of  game  which  would  jirevent  his  being  reduced  to  common 
fare  with  the  sailors.  Then  a  mattress  is  as  portable  as 
the  soups,  nearly.  Apart  from  the  asafcetida  he  may  en- 
dure, I  should  think.  Do  you  know,  I  was  amused  at  my- 
self yesterday,  after  the  first  movement,  for  liking  to  hear 
you  say  that  '  dry  biscuits  satisfied  '  you — because,  after 
all,  I  should  not  be  easy  to  see  you  living  on  dry  biscuits 
.  .  Ceres  and  Bacchus  forbid!  Oh — I  dont  profess  to 
apply,  out  of  a  pure  poetical  justice,  Lord  Byron's  Pytha- 
goreanism  to  the  '  nobler  half  of  creation ' — do  not  be 
afraid ' — but  it  is  rather  desecrating  and  disenchanting  to 
mark  how  certain  of  those  said  Nobilities  turn  upon  their 
dinners  as  on  the  pivot  of  the  day,  for  their  good  pleasure 
and  good  temper  besides.  Did  you  ever  observe  a  lord  of 
creation  knit  his  brows  together  because  the  cutlets  were 
underdone,  shooting  enough  fire  from  his  eyes  to  overdo 
them  to  cinders  .  .  .  '  cinder-blast '  them,  as  iEschylus 
would  have  it?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  litany  which 
some  women  say  through  the  first  course  .  .  low  to  them- 
selves? Perhaps  not!  it  does  not  enter  into  your  imagina- 
tion to  conceive  of  things,  which  nevertheless  are. 

Not  that  I  ever  thought  of  you  with  reference  to  such — 
oh  no,  no !  But  every  variety  of  the  '  Epicuri  de  grege 
porous, '  I  have  a  sort  of  indisposition  to  .  .  even  as  the 
animal  itself  (pork  of  nature  and  the  kitchen)  I  avoid  like 
a  Jewish  woman.  Do  you  smile?  And  did  I  half  (or 
whole)  make  you  angry  this  morning  through  being  so 
didactic  and  detestable?  Will  you  challenge  me  to  six 
paces  at  Chalk  Farm,  and  will  you  '  take  aim '  this  time 
and  put  an  end  to  every  sort  of  pretence  in  me  to  other 
approaches  between  us  two?  Tell  me  if  you  are  angry, 
dearest !  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  if  you  felt  (for  the  time  even) 
vexed  with  me  .  .  I  want  to  know  .  .  I  need  to  know. 
Do  you  not  know  what  my  reflection  must  reasonably  be? 
.  .  That  is,  apart  from  provocation  and  excitement,  you  be- 


46     THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Aprils 

lieve  in  the  necessity  of  such  and  such  resources,  .  .  pro- 
voked and  excited  you  would  apply  to  them — there  could 
be  no  counteracting  force  .   .  no  help  nor  hope. 

So  I  spoke  my  mind — and  you  are  vexed  with  me, 
which  I  feel  in  the  air.  May  God  bless  you  dearest,  dear- 
est!   Forgive,  as  you  can,  best, 

Your  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  April  8,  1846.] 

First  of  all,  kiss  me,  dearest, — and  again — and  now, 
with  the  left  arm  round  you,  I  will  write  what  I  think  in 
as  few  words  as  possible.  I  think  the  fault  of  not  carry- 
ing out  principles  is  yours,  here.  Several  principles  would 
arrive  at  the  result  you  desire — Christianity,  Stoicism, 
Asceticism,  Epicureanism  (in  the  modern  sense) — all  these 
'  carried  out '  stop  the  procedure  you  deprecate — but  I 
fancy,  as  you  state  your  principle,  that  it  is  an  eclecticism 
from  these  and  others ;  and  presently  one  branch  crosses 
its  fellow,  and  we  stop,  arrive  at  nothing.  Do  you  accept 
'life's  warm-beating  joy  and  dole,'  for  an  object  of  that 
life?  Is  '  society  '  a  thing  to  desire  to  participate  in?  not 
by  the  one  exceptional  case  out  of  the  million,  but  by  men 
generally, — men  who  '  live '  only  for  living's  sake,  in  the 
first  instance ;  next,  men  who,  having  ulterior  objects  and 
aims  of  happiness,  yet  derive  various  degrees  of  sustain- 
ment  and  comfort  from  the  social  life  round  them ;  and  so 
on,  higher  up,  till  you  come  to  the  half-dozen,  for  whom 
we  need  not  be  pressingly  urgent  to  legislate  just  yet, 
having  to  attend  to  the  world  first.  Well,  is  social  life,  a 
good,  generally  to  these?  If  so, — go  back  to  another  prin- 
ciple which  I  suppose  you  to  admit, — that  '  good  '  may  be 
lawfully  held,  defended, — even  to  the  death.  Now  see 
where  the  '  cross  '  takes  place.  Something  occurs  which 
forces  a  man  to  hold  this,  defend  this — he  must  do  this, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEBETT  47 

or  renounce  it.  You  let  him  do  neither.  Do  not  say 
he  needs  not  renounce  it, — we  go  avowedly  on  the  vulgar 
broad  ground  of  fact — you  very  well  know  it  is  a,  fact  that 
by  his  refusing  to  accept  a  challenge,  or  send  one,  on  con- 
ventionally sufficient  ground,  he  will  be  infallibly  excluded 
from  a  certain  class  of  society  thenceforth  and  forever. 
What  society  should  do  rather,  is  wholly  out  of  the  ques- 
tion— what  will  be  done?  And  now,  candidly,  can  you  well 
fancy  a  more  terrible  wrong  than  this  to  the  ordinary  mul- 
titude of  men?  Alter  the  principles  of  your  reasoning — 
say,  Christianity  forbids  this, — and  that  will  do — rational 
Simon  renounces  on  his  pillar  more  than  the  pleasures  of 
society  if  so  he  may  save  his  soul:  say,  society  is  not 
worth  living  in, — it  is  no  wrong  to  be  forced  to  quit  it — 
that  will  do,  also, — a  man  with  '  Paradise  Lost '  or '  Othello  ' 
to  write ;  or  with  a  Ba  to  live  beside  for  his  one  compan- 
ion,— or  many  other  compensations,- — he  may  retire  to  his 
own  world  easily.  Say,  on  the  lowest  possible  ground, 
'  out  of  society  one  eats,  drinks  &c.  excellently  well;  what 
loss  is  there?  ' — all  these  principles  avail;  but  mix  them — 
and  they  surely  neutralize  each  other.  A  man  may  live, 
enjoy  life,  oppose  an  attempt  to  prevent  his  enjoying  life, 
— yet  not — you  see !  '  The  method  is  irrational,  proves 
nothing  &c.'—  what  is  that  to  the  question?  Is  the  effect 
disputable  or  no?  Wordsworth  decides  he  had  better  go 
to  court— then  he  must  buy  or  borrow  a  court-dress.  He 
goes  because  of  the  poetry  in  him.  What  irrationality  in 
the  bag  and  sword — in  the  grey  duffil  gown  yonder,  he 
wrote — half  through  the  exceeding  ease  and  roominess  of 
it — '  The  Excursion  ' ;  how  proper  he  should  go  in  it,  there- 
fore .  .  beside  it  will  wring  his  heartstrings  to  pay  down 
the  four  pounds,  ten  and  sixpence:  good,  Mr.  Words- 
worth! There's  no  compulsion;  go  back  to  the  lakes  and 
be  entirely  approved  of  by  Miss  Norwick !  .  .  but,  if  you 
do  choose  to  kiss  hands  (instead  of  cheeks  '  smackingly  ') 
why,  you  must  even  resolve  to  '  grin  and  bear  it '  (a  sea- 
phrase!) — and,  Ba,   your   imaginary  man,  who  is  called 


48     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [April  8 

'  liar '  before  a  large  assembly,  must  decide  for  one  or  the 
other  course.  '  He  makes  his  antagonist  double  the 
wrong'?  Nay — here  the  wrong  begins — the  poor  author 
of  the  outrage  should  have  known  his  word  was  nothing — 
the  sense  of  it,  he  and  his  like  express  abundantly  every 
hour  of  the  day,  if  they  please,  in  language  only  a  shade 
removed  from  this  that  causes  all  the  harm,- — and  who 
does  other  than  utterly,  ineffably  despise  them?  but  he 
chooses,  as  the  very  phrase  is,  to  oblige  his  adversary  to 
act  thus.  He  is  nothing  (I  am  going  on  your  own  case  of 
a  supposed  futile  cause  of  quarrel) — he  may  think  just 
what  he  pleases — but  having  said  this  and  so, — it  is  entirely 
society's  affair — and  what  is  society's  present  decision? 
Directly  it  relaxes  a  regulation,  allows  another  outlet  to 
the  natural  contempt  for,  and  indifference  to  such  men 
and  their  opinions  spoken  or  unspoken,  everybody  avails 
himself  of  it  directlj-.  If  the  Lord  Chamberlain  issues  an 
order  this  morning,  '  No  swords  need  be  worn  at  next 
levee  ' — who  will  appear  with  one?  A  politician  is  allowed 
to  call  his  opponent  a  destructive  &c.  A  critic  may  write  that 
the  author  of  such  a  book  or  such,  is  the  poorest  creature 
in  the  world — and  who  dreams  of  being  angry  ?  but  society 
up  to  this  time  says,  '  if  a  man  calls  another  &c.  &c,  then 
he  must ' — ■  Will  you  renounce  society?  I  for  one,  could, 
easily:  so  therefore  shall  Mr  Kenyon!  Beside,  I  on  pur- 
pose depreciate  the  value  of  an  admission  into  society  .  . 
as  if  it  were  onlj  for  those  who  recognize  no  other  value ; 
and  the  wiser  men  might  easily  forego  it.  Not  so  easily ! 
There  are  uses  in  it,  great  uses,  for  purposes  quite  beyond 
its  limits — you  pass  through  it,  mix  with  it,  to  get  some- 
thing by  it :  you  do  not  go  in  to  the  world  to  live  on  the 
breath  of  every  fool  there,  but  you  reach  something  out  of 
the  world  by  being  let  go  quietly,  if  not  with  a  favourable 
welcome,  among  them.  I  leave  here  to  go  to  Wimpole 
Street : — I  want  to  have  as  little  as  possible  to  say  to  the 
people  I  find  betiveen — but,  do  you  know,  if  I  allow  a  fool- 
ish child  to  put  the  very  smallest  of  fool's  caps  on  my  head 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABRETT  49 

instead  of  the  hat  I  usually  wear,  though  the  comfort  would 
be  considerable  in  the  change,— yet  I  shall  be  followed  by 
an  increasing  crowd,  say  to  Charing  Cross,  and  thence 
pelted,  perhaps,  till  I  reach  No  50 — there,  perhaps  to  find 
the  servant  hesitate  about  opening  the  door  to  such  an  ap- 
parition,— and  when  Papa  comes  to  hear  how  illustriously 
your  visitor  was  attended  through  the  streets !  why  he  will 
specially  set  apart  Easter  Monday  to  testify  in  person  his 
sense  of  the  sublime  philosophy,  will  he  not?  My  Ba — I 
tell  the  child  on  the  first  symptom  of  such  a  wish  on  his 
part 'Don't!'  with  all  the  eloquence  in  my  power — if  I 
can  put  it  handsomely  off  my  head,  even,  I  will,  and  with 
pitying  good  nature — but  if  I  must  either  wear  the  cap,  and 
pay  the  penalty,  or — slap  his  face,  why — !  '  Ah,'  you  say, 
'  but  he  has  got  a  pistol  that  you  don't  see  and  will  shoot 
you  dead  like  a  foolish  child  as  he  is. '  That  he  may ! 
Have  I  to  be  told  that  in  this  world  men,  foolish  or 
wicked,  do  inflict  tremendous  injuries  on  their  unoffending 
fellows?  Let  God  look  to  it,  I  say  with  reverence,  and  do 
you  look  to  this  point,  where  the  injury  is,  begins.  The 
foolish  man  who  throws  some  disfiguring  liquid  in  your 
face,  which  to  remove  you  must  have  recourse  to  some 
dangerous  surgical  operation, — perilling  himself,  too,  by 
the  consequent  vengeance  of  the  law,  if  you  sink  under 
knife  or  cauterizing  iron, — shall  I  say  'the  fault  is  yours — 
why  submit  to  the  operation?'  The  fault  is  his  that  insti- 
tutes the  very  fault — which  begin  by  teaching  him  from 
his  cradle  in  every  possible  shape!  But  don't,  don't 
say — 'the  operation  in  unnecessary;  your  blistered  face 
will  look,  does  look  just  as  usual,  not  merely  to  me  who 
know  you,  perhaps  love  you, —  but  to  the  whole  world 
.  .  on  whose  opinion  of  its  agreeableness,  I  confess  that 
you  are  dependent  for  nearly  every  happy  minute  of  your 
life.'  In  all  this,  I  speak  for  the  world,  not  for  me — I 
have  other,  too  many  other  sources  of  enjoyment — I  could 
easily,  I  think,  do  what  you  require.     I  endeavour  to  care 

for  others  with  none  of  these ;  as  dear,  dearest  Ba,  sitting 
Vol.  II.—  4 


50     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWKING    [April  8 

in  her  room  because  of  a  dull  day,  would  have  me  take  a 
few  miles'  exercise.  Has  everybody  a  Ba?  I  had  not  last 
year — yet  last  year  I  had  reasons,  and  still  have,  for,  on 
occasion,  renouncing  society  fifty  times  over :  what  I  should 
do,  therefore,  is  as  improper  to  be  held  up  for  an  example, 
as  the  exemplary  behaviour  of  Walpole's  old  French  officer 
of  ninety,  who  '  hearing  some  youths  diverting  themselves 
with  some  girls  in  a  tent  close  by,  asked.  '  Is  this  the  ex- 
ample /set  you,  gentlemen?  '  .  But  I  shall  be  dishonoured 
however — Ba  will  '  go  and  call  the  police  ' — why,  so  should 
I  for  your  brother,  in  all  but  the  extremest  case ! — because 
when  I  had  told  all  the  world,  witli  ivliom  the  concern  solely 
is,  that,  despite  his  uttermost  endeavour,  I  had  done 
this, — the  world  would  be  satisfied  at  once — and  the  whole 
procedure  is  meant  to  satisfy  the  world — even  the  foolish- 
est  know  that  the  lion  in  a  cage,  through  no  fault  of  his, 
cannot  snap  at  a  fly  outside  the  bars.  The  thing  to  know 
is,  will  Ba  dictate  to  her  husband  '  a  refusal  to  fight, '  and 
then  recommend  him  to  go  to  a  dinner-party  ?  Say,  '  give 
up  the  dinner  for  my  sake,'  if  you  like — one  or  the  other 
it  must  be:  you  know,  I  hate  and  refuse  dinner-parties. 
Does  everybody? 

But  now  in  candour,  hear  me :  I  write  all  this  to  show 
the  not  such  irrationality  of  the  practice  even  on  compara- 
tively frivolous  grounds  .  .  and  that  those  individuals  to 
whom  you  once  admit  society  may  be  a  legitimate  enjoy- 
ment, must  take  such  a  course  to  retain  the  privileges  they 
value — and  that  the  painful  cconsequences  should  be  as 
unhesitatingly  attributed  to  the  first  offence  and  its  author, 
— as  the  explosion  and  horror  to  the  fool  who  would  put 
the  match,  in  play  perhaps,  to  the  powder-barrel.  And  I 
excepted  myself  from  the  operation  of  this  necessity.  But 
I  must  confess  that  I  can  conceive  of  '  combinations  of  cir- 
cumstances '  in  which  I  see  two  things  only  .  .  or  a  Third : 
a  miscreant  to  be  put  out  the  world,  my  own  arm  and  best 
will  to  do  it;  and,  perhaps,  God  to  excuse;  which  is, 
approve.     My  Ba,  what  is  Evil,  in  its  unmistakable  shape, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  51 

but  a  thing  to  suppress  at  any  price?  I  do  approve  of  ju- 
dicial punishment  to  death  under  some  circumstances — I 
think  we  may,  must  say :  '  when  it  comes  to  that,  we  will 
keep  our  pact  of  life,  stand  by  God  and  put  that  out  of  us, 
our  world — it  shall  not  be  endured,  or  we  shall  not  be  en- 
dured ' !  Dear  Ba,  is  Life  to  become  a  child's  game?  A 
is  wronged,  B  rights  him,  and  is  a  hero  as  we  say ;  B  is 
wronged  again,  by  C ;  but  he  must  not  right  himself ;  that 
is  D's  proper  part,  who  again  is  to  let  E  do  the  same  kind 
office  for  him — and  so  on.  '  Defend  the  poor  and  father- 
less ' — and  we  all  applaud — but  if  they  could  defend  them- 
selves, why  not?  I  will  not  fancy  cases — here's  one  that 
strikes  me — a  fact.  Some  soldiers  were  talking  over  a 
watch  fire  abroad — one  said  that  once  he  was  travelling  in 
Scotland  and  knocked  at  a  cottage-door — an  old  woman 
with  one  child  let  him  in,  gave  him  a  supper  and  a  bed — 
next  morning  he  asked  how  they  lived,  and  she  said  the 
cow,  the  milk  of  which  he  was  then  drinking,  and  the  kale 
in  the  garden,  such  as  he  was  eating — were  all  her  '  mailien ' 
or  sustenance — whereon,  rising  to  go,  he,  for  the  fun,  '  killed 
the  cow  and  destroyed  the  kale' — '  the  old  witch  crying  out 
she  should  certainly  be  starved ' — then  he  went  his  way. 
'  And  she  ivas  starved,  of  course,'  said  a  young  man;  '  do 
you  rue  it?  ' —  The  other  laughed  '  Kue  aught  like  that ! ' 
— The  young  man  said,  '  I  was  the  boy,  and  that  was  my 
mother — now  then! ' — In  a  minute  or  two  the  preparer  of 
this  '  combination  of  circumstances  '  lay  writhing  with  a 
sword  through  him  up  to  the  hilt — '  If  you  had  rued  it ' — 
the  youth  said — '  you  should  have  answered  it  only  to 
God!' 

More  than  enough  of  this — but  I  was  anxious  to  stand 
clearer  in  your  dear  eyes.  '  Vows  and  promises  !  '—I  want 
to  leave  society  for  the  Siren's  isle, — and  now,  I  often  seri- 
ously reproach  myself  with  conduct  quite  the  reverse  of 
what  you  would  guard  against :  I  have  too  much  indijfer- 
entism  to  the  opinions  of  Mr  Smith  and  Mr  Brown — by 
no  means  am  anxious  to  have  his  notions  agree  with  mine. 


52     THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEET  BBOWNING    [April  8 

Smith  thinks  Cromwell  a  canting  villain, — Brown  believes 
no  dissenter  can  be  saved, — and  I  repeat  Goethe's  '  Be  it 
your  unerring  rule,  ne'er  to  contradict  a  fool,  for  if  folly 
choose  to  brave  you,  all  your  wisdom  cannot  save  you ! ' 
And  sometimes  I  help  out  their  arguments  by  a  touch  or 
two,  after  Ogniben's  fashion — it  all  seems  so  wearisomely 
unprofitable;  what  comes  of  Smith's  second  thought  if 
you  change  his  first — out  of  that  second  will  branch  as  great 
an  error,  you  may  be  sure !  (11  o'clock)  Here  comes  your 
letter !  My  own  Ba !  My  dearest  best,  best  beloved !  I, 
angry !  oh,  how  you  misinterpret,  misunderstand  the  mo- 
tions of  my  mind!  In  all  that  I  said,  or  write  here,  I 
speak  of  others — others,  if  you  please,  of  limited  natures : 
I  say  why  they  may  be  excused  .  .  that  is  all.  '  You  do 
not  like  pork '  ?  But  those  poor  Irish  Colliers  whose  only 
luxury  is  bacon  once  a  month ;  you  understand  them  liking 
it?  I  do  not  value  society — others  do :  '  we  are  all  His 
children '  says  Euripides  and  quotes  Paul. 

Now,  love,  let  this  be  a  moot  point  to  settle  among  the 
flowers  one  day — with  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  '  other  hard 
questions  yet  not  impossible  to  be  solved '  ('  What  song 
the  sirens'  sang  to  Ulysses,'  is  the  first!)  in  which  blessed 
hope  let  me  leave  off ;  for  I  confess  to  having  written  my- 
self all-but-tired,  headachy.  But  '  vexed  with  you  ' !  Ba, 
Ba;  you  perplex  me,  bewilder  me;  let  me  get  right  again; 
kiss  me,  dearest,  and  all  is  right — God  bless  you  ever — 

Your  K. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

"Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  April  9,  1846.] 

After  the  question  about  the  '  Siren's  song  to  Ulysses,' 
dearest?  Then  directly  before,  I  suppose,  the  other  '  diffi- 
cult question '  talked  of  by  your  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  as 
to  '  what  name  Achilles  bore  when  he  lived  among  the 
women.'     That,  you  think,  will  be  an  appropriate  position 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  53 

for  our  *  moot  point '  which,  once  in  England,  was  guilty 
of  tiring  you  and  making  your  head  ache: — and  as  for 
Achilles's  name  when  he  lived  among  women,  it  was 
Miupos  you  will  readily  guess,  and  I  shall  not  dare  to  deny. 
Only  .  .  only  .  .  I  never  shall  be  convinced  on  the  '  pre- 
vious question '  by  the  arguments  of  your  letter — it  is  not 
possible. 

May  I  say  just  one  thing,  without  touching  that  spe- 
cific subject?  There  is  a  certain  class  of  sacrifice  which 
men  who  live  in  society,  should  pay  willingly  to  society 
.  .  the  sacrifice  of  little  or  indifferent  things,  .  .  in  re-£ 
spect  to  mere  manners  and  costume.  There  is  another 
class  of  sacrifice  which  should  be  refused  by  every  right- 
eous man  though  ever  so  eminently  a  social  man,  and 
though  to  the  loss  of  his  social  position.  Now  you  would 
be  the  last,  I  am  sure,  to  coDfound  these  two  classes  of 
sacrifice — and  you  will  admit  that  our  question  is  simply 
between  them  .  .  and  to  which  of  them,  duelling  belongs 
.  .  and  not  at  all  whether  society  is  in  itself  a  desirable 
thing  and  much  rejoiced  in  by  the  Browns  and  Smiths. 
You  refuse  to  wear  a  fool's  cap  in  the  street,  because  so- 
ciety forbids  you — which  is  well :  but  if,  in  order  to  avoid 
wearing  it,  you  shoot  the  '  foolish  child'  who  forces  it  upon 
you  .  .  why  you  do  not  well,  by  any  means :  it  would  not 
be  well  even  for  a  Brown  or  a  Smith — but  for  my  poet  of 
the  'Bells  and  Pomegranates,'  it  is  very  ill,  wonderfully 
ill  .  .  so  ill,  that  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  have  the  heart- 
ache (for  the  headache !)  only  to  think  of  it.  So  I  will 
not.  Why  should  we  see  things  so  differently,  ever  dear- 
est? If  anyone  had  asked  me,  I  could  have  answered  for 
you  that  you  saw  it  quite  otherwise.  And  you  would  hang 
men  even — you ! 

Well !  Because  I  do  '  not  rue '  (and  am  so  much  the 
more  unfit  to  die)  I  am  to  be  stabbed  through  the  body  by 
an  act  of  '  private  judgment '  of  my  next  neighbour.  So  I 
must  take  care  and  -  rue  '  when  I  do  anything  wrong — and 
I  begin  now,  for  being  the  means  of  tiring  you,  .  .  and 


54     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [April  9 

for  seeming  to  persist  so  I  You  may  be  right  and  I  wrong, 
of  course— I  only  speak  as  I  see.  And  will  not  speak  any 
more  last  words  .  .  taking  pardon  for  these.     /  rue. 

To-day  I  was  down  stairs  again— and  if  the  sun  shines 
on  as  brightly,  I  shall  be  out  of  doors  before  long  perhaps. 

Your  headache!  tell  me  how  your  headache  is, — re- 
member to  tell  me.  When  your  letter  came,  I  kissed  it 
by  a  sort  of  instinct  .  .  not  that  I  do  always  at  first  sight 
(please  to  understand),  but  because  the  writing  did  not 
look  angry  .  .  not  vexed  writing.  Then  I  read  .  .  '  First 
of  all,  kiss  '  .   . 

So  it  seemed  like  magic. 

Only  I  know  that  if  I  went  on  to  write  disagreeing  disa- 
greeable letters,  you  might  not  help  to  leave  off  loving  me 
at  the  end.     I  seem  to  see  through  this  crevice. 

Good  Heavens ! — how  dreadfully  natural  it  would  be 
to  me,  seem  to  me,  if  you  did  leave  off  loving  me !  How 
it  would  be  like  the  sun's  setting  .  .  and  no  more  wonder! 
Only,  more  darkness,  more  pain.  May  God  bless  you  my 
only  dearest !  and  me,  by  keeping  me 

Your 

Ba. 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday.     8.  a.m. 
[Post-mark,  April  9,  1846.] 

Dearest,  I  have  to  go  out  presently  and  shall  not  be 
able  to  return  before  night  .  ,  so  that  the  letter  I  expect 
will  only  be  read  then,  and  answered  to-morrow — what  will 
it  be,  the  letter?  Nothing  but  dear  and  kind,  I  know  .  . 
even  deserve  to  know,  in  a  sense, — because  I  am  sure  all 
in  my  letter  was  meant  to  be  '  read  by  your  light.'  I  sub- 
mit, unfeignedly,  to  you,  there  as  elsewhere — and, — as  I 
said,  I  think, — I  wrote  so,  precisely  because  it  was  never 
likely  to  be  my  own  case.  I  should  consider  it  the  most 
unhappy  thing  that  could  possibly  happen  to  me, — (put- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  55 

ting  aside  the  dreadful  possibilities  one  refuses  to  consider 
at  all,— the  most) 

Have  you  made  any  discoveries  about  the  disposition 
of  Saturday?  May  I  come,  dearest?  (On  Saturday  even- 
ing I  shall  see  a  friend  who  will  tell  me  all  he  knows  about 
ships  and  voyage  expenses — or  refer  me  to  higher  authori- 
ties) 

Bless  you,  now  and  ever,  my  own  Ba.  Do  you  know, 
next  Saturday,  in  its  position  of  successor  to  Good  Fri- 
day, will  be  the  anniversary  of  Mr.  Kenyon's  asking  me, 
some  four  years  ago,  '  if  /  would  like  to  see  Miss  B. '  How 
I  remember?  I  was  staying  with  him  for  a  couple  of  days. 
Now,  I  will  ask  myself  '  would  you  like  to  kiss  Ba? ' 
'  Then  comes  the  Selah. '     Goodbye,  dearest-dearest ! 

Yours  R, 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  April  10,  1846.] 

I  thought  you  had  not  written  to  me  to-night,  ever 
dearest!  Nine  o'clock  came  and  went,  and  I  heard  no 
postman's  knock ;  and  I  supposed  that  I  did  not  deserve 
(in  your  mind)  to  hear  it  at  all.  At  last  I  rang  the  bell 
and  said  to  Wilson  .  .  '  Look  in  the  letter-box — there  may 
be  a  letter  perhaps.  If  there  should  be  none,  you  need 
not  come  up  stairs  to  tell  me — I  shall  understand.'  So 
she  left  me,  and,  that  time,  I  listened  for  footsteps  .  .  the 
footsteps  of  my  letter.  If  I  had  not  heard  them  directly, 
what  should  I  have  thought? 

You  are  good  and  kind,  .  .  too  good  and  kind,  .  .  al- 
ways, always !— and  I  love  you  gratefully  and  shall  to  the 
end,  and  with  an  unspeakable  apprehension  of  what  you 
are  in  yourself,  and  towards  me: — yet  you  cannot,  you 
know, — you  know  you  cannot,  dearest  .  .  'submit'  to  me 
in  an  opinion,  any  more  than  I  could  to  you,  if  I  desired  it 
ever  so  anxiously.    We  will  talk  no  more  however  on  this 


5b     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  10 

subject  now.  I  have  had  some  pain  from  it,  of  course  .  . 
but  I  am  satisfied  to  have  had  the  pain,  for  the  knowledge 
.  .  which  was  as  necessary  as  possible,  under  circum- 
stances, for  more  reasons  than  one. 

Dearest  .  .  before  I  go  to  talk  of  something  else  .  . 
will  you  be  besought  of  me  to  consider  within  yourself,  .  . 
and  not  with  me  to  tease  you ;  ivhy  the  '  case, '  spoken  of, 
should  '  never  in  likelihood  be  your  own?  '  Are  you  and 
yours  charmed  from  the  influence  of  offensive  observations 
.  .  personally  offensive?  '  The  most  unhappy  thing  that 
could  happen  to  you,'  is  it,  on  that  account,  the  farthest 
thing? 

Now — !  Mrs.  Jameson  was  here  to-day,  and  in  the 
room  before,  almost,  I  heard  of  her  being  on  the  stairs. 
It  is  goodnatured  of  her  to  remember  me  in  her  brief  visits 
to  London — and  she  brought  me  two  or  three  St.  Sebas- 
tians with  the  arrows  through  them,  etched  by  herself,  to 
look  at — very  goodnatured!  Once  she  spoke  of  you — 
'Oh,'  she  said,  'you  saw  Mr.  Browning's  last  number! 
yes,  I  remember  how  you  spoke  of  it.  I  suppose  Mr.  Ken- 
yon  lent  you  his  copy  '  .  .  .  And  before  I  could  speak, 
she  was  on  another  subject.  But  I  should  not  have  had 
heart  to  say  what  I  meant  and  predetermined  to  say,  even 
if  the  opportunity  to-day  had  been  achieved.  As  if  »you 
could  not  be  read  except  in  Mr.  Kenyon's  copy !  I  might 
have  confessed  to  my  own  copy,  even  if  not  to  my  own 
original  .  .  do  you  not  think? 

Before  she  came,  I  went  down  to  the  drawing-room,  I 
and  Flush,  and  found  no  one  there  .  .  and  walked  drear- 
ily up  and  down  the  rooms,  and,  so,  came  back  to  mine. 
May  you  have  spent  your  day  better.  There  was  sunshine 
for  you,  as  I  could  see.  God  bless  you  and  keep  you. 
Saturday  may  be  clear  for  us,  or  may  not — and  if  it  should 
not  be  clear,  certainly  Monday  and  Tuesday  will  not  .  . 
what  shall  be  done?  Will  you  wait  till  Wednesday?  or 
will  you  (now  let  it  be  as  you  choose !)  come  on  Saturday, 
running  the  risk  of  finding  only  a  parcel  .  .  a  book  and  a 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  57 

letter  .  .  and  so  going  away,  if  there  should  be  reasons 
against  the  visit.  Because  last  Monday  was  known  of,  and 
I  shall  not  ascertain  until  Saturday  whether  or  not  we 
shall  be  at  liberty.  Or  .  .  shall  we  at  once  say  Wednes- 
day ?  It  is  for  your  decision.  You  go  out  on  Saturday 
evening  .  .  and  perhaps  altogether  there  may  be  a  con- 
spiracy against  Saturday.     Judge  and  decide. 

I  am  writing  as  with  the  point  of  a  pilgrim's  staff  rather 
than  a  pen.  '  We  are  all  strangers  and  pilgrims.'  Can 
you  read  anywise? 

I  think  of  you,  bless  you,  love  you — but  it  would  have 
been  better  for  you  never  to  have  seen  my  face  perhaps, 
though  Mr.  Kenyon  gave  the  first  leave.  Perhaps!! — I 
•  flatter  '  myself  to-night,  in  change  for  you. 

Best  beloved  I  am  your 

Ba. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday — 2  o'clock  p.m. 
[Post-mark,  April  10,  1846.] 

Ever  dearest  I  wrote  last  night  what  might  make  you 
doubtful  and  uncomfortable  about  Saturday ;  being  doubt- 
ful myself  and  not  knowing  what  word  to  say  of  it.  But 
just  now  Papa  has  been  here  in  the  room  with  me, — and  a 
beatific  Jamaica  packet  has  just  come  in,  as  the  post  de- 
clares .  .  (Benedetta  sia  l'ora  &c\)  and  he  will  'hear 
more,'  he  says,  'in  the  city  to-morrow /' —  So  we  are  safe. 
Come,  if  there  should  be  no  reason  of  your  own  for  stay- 
ing. For  me,  I  seem  to  have  more  need  than  usual  of  see- 
ing you.     May  God  bless  you.     I  am 

Your 
Ba. 


58     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  10 

R.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Friday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  April  10,  1846.] 

Dearest,  sweetest  best — how  can  you,  seeing  so  much, 
yet  see  that  '  possibility  '■ — /  leave  off  loving  you !  and  be 
'  angry  '  and  '  vexed  '  and  the  rest !  Well — take  care  I 
don't  answer  fairly  and  plainly  that  I  can  do  all  this — as 
the  poor  women  had  to  confess  in  their  bewilderment  when 
grave  judges  asked  '  by  which  of  the  thirty-seven  ways 
they  were  accustomed  to  signify  their  desire  of  his  pres- 
ence to  Asmodeus  ' — <fec  &c — -  But  I  cannot  jest,  nor  trifle 
here — I  protest  in  the  most  solemn  way  I  am  capable  of 
conceiving,  that  I  am  altogether  unable  to  imagine  how  or 
whence  or  why  any  possible  form  of  anger  or  vexation  or 
any  thing  akin  can  or  could  or  should  or  shall  ever  rise  in 
me  to  you — it  is  a  sense  hitherto  undreamed  of,  a  new  fac- 
ulty— altogether  an  inexplicable,  impossible  feeling.  I  am 
not  called  on,  surely,  to  suppose  cases  of  pure  impossibil- 
ity? To  say,  '  if  you  did  thus  or  thus,' — what  I  know  you 
could  no  more  do  than  go  and  kill  cows  with  your  own 
hand,  and  dig  up  kale  grounds?  But  I  can  fancy  your 
being  angry  with  me,  very  angry — and  speaking  the  truth 
of  the  anger — that  is  to  be  fancied:  and  God  knows  I 
should  in  that  case  kiss  my  letters,  here,  till  you  pleased 
to  judge  me  not  unworthy  to  kiss  the  hem  of  your  garment 
again.  My  own  Ba !  My  election  is  made  or  God  made 
it  for  me, — and  is  irrevocable.  I  am  wholly  yours.  I  see 
you  have  yet  to  understand  what  that  implies, — but  you 
will  one  day.  And  in  this,  just  said,  I  understand  serious 
anger,  for  serious  offences ;  to  which,  despite  my  earnest 
endeavour,  who  shall  say  I  may  not  be  liable?  What  are 
you  given  me  for  but  to  make  me  better — and,  in  that,  hap- 
pier? If  you  could  save  my  soul,  'so  as  by  fire,'  would 
your  dear  love  shrink  from  that?  But  in  the  matter  we 
really  refer  to  .  .  .  Oh,  Ba,  did  I  not  pray  you  at  the  be- 
ginning to  tell  me  the  instant  you  detected  anything  to  be 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAREETT  59 

altered  by  human  effort?  to  give  me  that  chance  of  becom- 
ing more  like  you  and  worthier  of  you?  and  here  where 
you  think  me  gravely  in  the  wrong,  and  I  am  growing  con- 
scious of  being  in  the  wrong, — one  or  two  repetitions  of 
such  conduct  as  yours,  such  '  disagreeable  letters, '  and  I 
must l  leave  off'  .  .  .When  I  do  that  on  such  ground  .  .  I 
need  imprecate  no  foolish  sense  on  my  head, — the  very 
worst  will  be  in  full  operation.  I  only  wrote  to  justify  an 
old  feeling,  exercised  only  in  the  case  of  others  I  have 
heard  of — men  called  '  cool  murderers, '  '  deliberate  imbru- 
ers  of  their  hands  in,'  &c.  &c. — and  I  meant  just  to  say, 
— well, — I,  and  others,  despise  your  society  and  only  go 
into  it  now  to  be  the  surer  that,  when  we  leave  it,  we  were 
not  excluded  as  the  children  turn  from  the  grapes  because 
their  teeth  are  set  on  edge,  whatever  may  be  the  foxes' 
pretext — but,  for  your  own  devoted  followers  be  a  little 
more  merciful,  and  while  you  encourage  them  to  spend  a 
dozen  years  in  a  law-suit,  lest  they  lose  a  few  pounds  .  . 
but  I  won't  repeat  the  offence,  dear — you  are  right  and  I 
am  wrong  and  will  lay  it  to  heart,  and  now  kiss,  not  your 
feet  this  time,  because  I  am  the  prouder,  far  from  the 
more  humble,  by  this  admission  and  retraction — 

Your  note  arrives  here — Ba ; — it  would  have  been  '  bet- 
ter for  me,'  that?  Oh,  dearest,  let  us  marry  soon,  very 
soon,  and  end  all  this !  If  I  could  begin  taking  exceptions 
again,  I  might  charge  you  with  such  wild  conventionalism, 
such  wondrous  perversity  of  sight  or  blindness  rather! 
Can  you,  now,  by  this  time  tell  me  or  yourself  that  you 
could  believe  me  happy  with  any  other  woman  that  ever 
breathed?  I  tell  you,  without  affectation,  that  I  lay  the 
whole  blame  to  myself  .  .  that  I  feel  that  if  I  had  spoken 
my  love  out  sufficiently,  all  this  doubt  could  never  have 
been  possible.  You  quite  believe  I  am  in  earnest,  know 
my  own  mind  and  speak  as  I  feel,  on  these  points  we  dis- 
puted about — yet  I  am  far  from  being  sure  of  it,  or  so  it 
seems  now — but,  as  for  loving  you, — there  I  mistake,  or 
may  be  wrong,  or  may,  or  might  or  or — 


60     THE  LETTEES  OF  KOBEKT  BROWNING  [April  10 

Now  kiss  me,  my  best-dearest  beloved !  It  seems  I  am 
always  understood  so— the  words  are  words,  and  faulty, 
and  inexpressive,  or  wrongly  expressive, — but  when  I  live 
under  your  eyes,  and  die,  you  will  never  mistake, — you  do 
not  now,  thank  God,  say  to  me  '  you  want  to  go  elsewhere 
for  all  you  say  the  visit  seems  too  brief ' — and,  '  you  would 
change  me  for  another,  for  all  you  possess  ' — never  do  you 
say  such  things — but  when  I  am  away,  all  the  mistaking 
begins — let  it  end  soon,  come,  dearest  life  of  my  life,  light 
of  my  soul,  heart's  joy  of  my  heart! 

You  feel  I  must  see  you  to-morrow  if  possible— at  all 
events  I  will  call  for  the  parcel.  (What  made  you  suppose 
I  was  engaged  to-morrow  night?  The  saying  that  I  should 
meet  my  sea-faring  friend,  perhaps?  But  that  is  to  be 
here — he  comes  here — at  all  events,  I  recollect  no  other  en- 
gagement— if  I  had  one  with  Death  himself,  I  almost  think 
I  would  go, — folly !  But  let  the  parcel  be  ready  (to  put 
into  my  hand  at  once)  and  I  will  venture  at  3  o'clock. 

In  truth,  all  yesterday  I  was  very  unwell, — going  about 
sight-seeing  with  a  friend  and  his  lady-cousins,  and  after- 
ward dining  with  them — I  came  home  dead  with  intense 
boring — I  rarely  remember  to  have  suffered  so  much.  To- 
day I  am  rather  better, — much  better,  indeed.  If  I  can 
but  see  you  for  a  few  minutes  to-morrow ! 

May  God  bless  you,  dearest — and  show  you  the  truth 
in  me,  the  one  truth  which  I  dare  hope  compensates  for 
much  that  is  to  be  forgiven :  when  I  told  you  at  the  begin- 
ning I  was  not  worthy,  was  infinitely  lower  &c,  you  seemed 
incredulous !  well  now,  you  see !  I,  that  you  would  persist 
in  hoping  better  things  of,  held  such  opinions  as  those — 
and  so  you  begin  setting  me  right,  and  so  I  am  set  far  on 
towards  right — is  not  all  well,  love?  And  now  go  on,  when 
I  give  next  occasion,  and  tell  me  more,  and  let  me  alter 
more,  and  thank  you,  if  I  can,  more, — but  not,  not  love  you 
more,  you,  Ba,  whom  I  love  wholly, — with  all  my  facul- 
ties, all  my  being.  May  God  bless  you,  again — it  all  ends 
there — !  Your  own  R. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  61 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  April  13,  1846.] 

I  will  not  speak  much  of  the  letter,  as  you  desire  that  I 
should  not.  And  because  everything  you  write  must  be  an- 
swered in  some  way  and  sense,  .  .  must  have  some  result, 
there  is  the  less  need  of  words  in  the  present  case.  Let 
me  say  only  then,  ever  dearest,  dearest,  that  I  never  felt 
towards  you  as  I  felt  when  I  had  read  that  letter  .  .  never 
loved  you  so  entirely !  .  .  that  it  went  to  my  heart,  and 
stayed  there,  and  seemed  to  mix  with  the  blood  of  it  .  .  . 
believe  this  of  me,  dear  dearest  beloved!  For  the  rest, 
there  is  no  need  for  mo  to  put  aside  carefully  the  assump- 
tion of  being  didactic  to  you  .  .  of  being  better  than  yon, 
so  as  to  teach  you!  .  .  .  ah,  you  are  so  fond  of  dressing 
me  up  in  pontifical  garments  ('for  fun,'  as  the  children, 
say!) — but  because  they  are  too  large  for  me,  they  drop 
off  always  of  themselves,  .  .  they  do  not  require  my  pull- 
ing them  off :  these  extravagances  get  righted  of  their  own 
accord.  After  all,  too,  you,  .  .  with  that  preternatural 
submissiveness  of  yours,  .  .  you  know  your  power  upon 
the  whole,  and  understand,  in  the  midst  of  the  obeisances, 
that  you  can  do  very  much  what  you  please,  with  your 
High  Priest.  EX  re?  aX<Tdv)<ri<;  in  the  ghosts  of  the  tribe  of 
Levi,  let  them  see  and  witness  how  it  is ! 

And  now,  do  you  see.  It  was  just  natural  that  when 
we  differed  for  the  first  time  I  should  fall  into  low  spirits. 
In  the  night,  at  dream-time,  when  instead  of  dreams  '  deep 
thought  falleth  upon  man, '  suddenly  I  have  been  sad  even 
to  tears,  do  you  know,  to  think  of  that:  and  whenever  I 
am  not  glad,  the  old  fears  and  misgivings  come  back — no, 
you  do  not  understand  .  .  y ou  cannot,  perhaps!  But  dear, 
dearest,  never  think  of  yourself  that  you  have  expressed 
'  insufficiently  '  your  feelings  f<  >r  me.  Insufficiently!  No 
words  but  just  your  own,  between  heaven  and  earth,  could 


62     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  13 

have  persuaded  me  that  one  such  as  you  could  love  me ! 
and  the  tongue  of  angels  could  not  speak  better  words  for 
that  purpose,  than  just  yours.  Also,  I  know  that  you 
love  me  .  .  I  do  know  it,  my  only  dearest,  and  recognize 
it  in  the  gratitude  of  my  soul : — and  it  is  through  my  want 
of  familiarity  with  any  happiness — through  the  want  of 
use  in  carrying  these  weights  of  flowers,  that  I  drop  them 
again  and  again  out  of  weak  hands.  Besides  the  truth  is, 
that  I  am  not  worthy  of  you — and  if  you  were  to  see  it  just 
as  I  see  it,  why  there  would  be  an  end  .  .  there,  .  .  I 
sometimes  think  reasonably. 

Well — now  I  shall  be  good  for  at  least  a  fortnight.  Do 
I  not  tease  you  and  give  you  trouble?  I  feel  ashamed  of 
myself  sometimes.  Let  me  go  away  from  myself  to  talk 
of  Mr.  Kenyon,  therefore ! 

For  he  came  to-day,  and  arrived  in  town  on  Friday 
evening — (what  an  escape  on  Saturday!)  and  said  of  you, 
.  .  with  those  detestable  spectacles — like  the  Greek  burn- 
ing glasses,  turned  full  on  my  face  .  .  '  I  suppose  now 
that  Mr.  Browning's  book  is  done  and  there  are  no  more 
excuses  for  coming,  he  will  come  without  excuses.'  Then, 
after  talk  upon  other  subjects,  he  began  a  long  wandering 
sentence,  the  end  of  which  I  could  see  a  mile  off,  about 
how  he  '  ought  to  know  better  than  I,  but  wished  to  en- 
quire of  me '  .  .  .  what,  do  you  suppose?  .  .  why,  '  what 
Mr.  Browning's  objects  in  life  were.  Because  Mrs.  Proc- 
ter had  been  saying  that  it  was  a  pity  he  had  not  seven  or 
eight  hours  a  day  of  occupation,'  &c.  &c.  It  is  a  good 
thing  to  be  angry,  as  a  refuge  from  being  confounded :  I 
really  could  say  something  to  that.  And  I  did  say  that 
you  '  did  not  require  an  occupation  as  a  means  of  living 
.  .  having  simple  habits  and  desires — nor  as  an  end  of 
living,  since  you  found  one  in  the  exercise  of  your  genius ! 
and  that  if  Mr.  Procter  had  looked  as  simply  to  his  art  as 
an  end,  he  would  have  done  better  things." 

Which  made  Mr.  Kenyon  cry  out  .  .  '  Ah  now !  you 
are  spiteful!  and  you  need  not  be,  for  there  was  nothing 


1846]  AttD  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  63 

unkind  in  what  she  said..'  '  But  absurd'!  .  .  I  insisted — 
'  seeing  that  to  put  race  horses  into  dray  carts,  was  not 
usually  done  nor  advised. ' 

You  told  me  she  was  a  worldly  woman ;  and  here  is  a 
proof,  sent  back  to  you.  But  what  business  have  worldly 
women  to  talk  their  dusts  and  ashes  over  high  altars  in 
that  way?  I  was  angry  and  sinned  not — angry  for  the 
moment.  Then  Mr.  Kenyon  agreed  with  me,  I  think,  and 
illustrated  the  subject  by  telling  me  how  Wordsworth  had 
given  himself  to  the  service  of  the  temple  from  the  begin- 
ning— 'though,'  observed  Mr.  Kenyon,  'he  did  not  escape 
so  from  worldliness.'  But  William  Wordsworth  is  not 
Robert  Browning.  Mr.  Kenyon  spoke  of  your  family  and 
of  yourself  with  the  best  and  most  reverent  words. 

And  all  this  reminds  me  of  what  I  have  often  and  often 
mused  about  saying  to  you,  and  shrank  back,  and  torn  the 
paper  now  and  then  .  .  .  You  know  the  subject  you  want- 
ed to  discuss,  on  Saturday.  Now  whenever  the  time  shall 
come  for  discussing  that  subject,  let'this  be  a  point  agreed 
upon  by  both  of  us.  The  peculiarity  of  our  circumstances 
will  enable  us  to  be  free  of  the  world  .  .  of  our  friends 
even  .  .  of  all  observation  and  examination,  in  certain  re- 
spects :  now  let  us  use  the  advantage  which  falls  to  us  from 
our  misfortune, — and,  since  we  must  act  for  ourselves  at 
last,  let  us  resist  the  curiosity  of  the  whole  race  of  third 
persons  .  .  even  the  affectionate  interest  of  such  friends  as 
dear  Mr.  Kenyon,  .  .  and  put  it  into  the  power  of  nobody 
to  say  to  himself  or  to  another,  .  .  'she  had  so  much,  and 
he,  so  much,  in  worldly  possessions — or  she  had  not  so  much 
and  he  had  not  so  much. '  Try  to  understand  what  I  mean. 
As  it  is  not  the  least  importance  to  either  of  us,  as  long  as 
we  can  live,  whether  the  sixpence,  we  live  by,  came  most 
from  you  or  from  me  .  .  and  as  it  will  be  as  much  mine 
as  yours,  and  yours  as  mine,  when  we  are  together  .  .  why 
let  us  join  in  throwing  a  little  dust  in  all  the  winking  eyes 
round — oh,  it  is  nonsense  and  weakness,  I  know — but  I 
would  rather,  rather,  see  winking  eyes  than  staring  eyes. 


64     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  13 

What  has  anybody  to  do  with  us?  Even  my  own  family 
.  .  why  should  they  ever  see  the  farthest  figure  of  our  af- 
fairs, as  to  mere  money?  There  now — it  is  said,  .  .  what 
I  have  had  in  my  head  so  long  to  say.  And  one  other 
word  resumes  my  meditations  on  '  the  subject '  which  will 
not  be  ripe  for  discussion  for  ever  so  many  months  .  . 
and  that  other  word  is  .  .  that  if  ever  I  am  to  wrong  you 
so  much  as  to  be  yours  so,  it  is  on  the  condition  of  leaving 
England  within  the  fewest  possible  half  hours  afterwards. 
I  told  you  that,  long  ago — so  bear  it  in  mind.  I  should 
not  dare  breathe  in  this  England.  Think  !■ — There  is  my 
father — and  there  is  yours !  Do  you  imagine  that  I  am 
not  afraid  of  your  family?  and  should  be  still  more,  if  it 
were  not  for  the  great  agony  of  fear  on  the  side  of  my  own 
house.  Ah — I  must  love  you  unspeakably  .  .  even  to  dare 
think  of  the  possibility  of  such  things.  So  we  will  not 
talk  of  them  now.  I  write  what  I  write,  to  throw  it  off 
my  mind  and  have  done.  Bear  it  in  yours,  but  do  not 
refer  to  it — /  ask  you  not  to  refer  to  it. 

A  long  straggling  letter,  this  is.  I  shall  have  mine  to- 
morrow. And  you  will  tell  me  if  Wednesday  or  Thursday 
shall  be  our  day;  and  above  all,  tell  me  how  you  are. 
Then  the  book  will  come.  Eemember  to  send  one  to  Mrs. 
Jameson!  I  write  in  haste  .  .  in  haste — but  one  may 
think  of  you  either  in  haste  or  at  leisure,  without  blotting 
the  air.  Love  me,  beloved  .  .  do  not  leave  off  to  see  if 
I  deserve  it.     I  am  at  least  (which  is  at  most) 

Xour  very  own. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  April  13,  1846.] 

Dearest,  unspeakably  dear  Ba, — would  I  were  with  you ! 
But  my  heart  stays  with  you:  I  write  this,  tired  somewhat 
and  out  of  spirits — for  I  have  been  writing  notes  this  morn- 
ing ;  getting  rid  of  the  arrears  which  turn  out  more  consid- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  65 

erable  than  I  thought.  And  the  moment  I  have  done,  I 
look  to  the  chair  and  the  picture  and  desire  to  be  at  rest 
with  you;  the  perfect  rest  and  happiness  here  on  earth. 
But  do  think,  my  own  Ba,  in  the  direction  I  indicated  yes- 
terday— any  obstacle  now,  would  be  more  than  I  could 
bear — I  feel  I  must  live  with  you, — if  but  for  a  year,  a 
month — to  express  the  love  which  words  cannot  express, 
nor  these  letters,  nor  aught  else. 

See  one  thing !  Through  your  adorable  generosity,  my 
beloved, — at  the  beginning  you  pleased  to  tell  me  my  love 
was  returned, — that  I  had  gained  your  love;  without  your 
assurance,  I  should  never  have  believed  that  possible, 
whatever  you  may  think;  but  you,  what  you  say,  I  believe; 
would  in  other  matters  believe,  rather  than  my  own  senses ; 
and  here  I  believed — in  humbleness,  God  knows ;  but  so  it 
was. — Then,  is  there  not  this  one  poor  fruit  of  that  gene- 
rosity, one  reassuring  consideration,  if  you  will  accept  it, 
that,  nearly  a  year  ago,  I  was  in  possession  of  all  I 
aspired  to? — so  that  if  I  had  been  too  weak  for  my  ac- 
corded happiness — likely  to  be  in  due  time  satiated  with 
it,  and  less  and  less  impressed  by  it,  and  so  on,  till  at  last 
'  I  changed,' — would  not  this  have  happened  inevitably 
before  now  ?  I  had  gained  your  love ;  one  could  not  go  on 
gaining  it — but  some  other  love  might  be  gained !  Indeed, 
I  don't  see  how,  in  certain  instances  (where  there  is  what 
is  called  a  '  pursuit, '  and  all  the  excitement  of  suspense, 
and  alternating  hope  and  fear,  all  ending  in  the  marriage 
day,  after  the  fashion  of  a  Congreve  comedy),  how  with 
the  certainty  of  that  kind  of  success,  all  the  interest  of  the 
matter  can  avoid  terminating.  But  it  does  seem  to  me, 
that  the  love  I  have  gained  is  as  nothing  to  the  love  I  trust 
to  gain.  I  want  the  love  at  our  lives'  end,  the  love  after 
trial,  the  love  of  my  love,  when  mine  shall  have  had  time 
and  occasion  to  prove  itself!  I  have  already,  from  the  be- 
ginning indeed,  had  quite  enough  magnanimity  to  avoid 
wishing  for  opportunities  of  doing  so  at  your  expense — I 
pray  you  may  never  be  in  dangers  from  which  I  rescue 
Vol.  II.— 5 


66     THE  LETTEES  OF  BOBEET  BBO  WNING  [April  13 

you,  nor  meet  sorrow  from  which  I  divert  you :  but  in  the 
ordinary  chances  of  life — I  shall  be  there,  and  ready,  and 
your  own,  heart  and  soul.     Why  do  I  say  this  to  you? 

All  words  are  so  weak, — so  weak! 

Here, — (no,  I  shall  have  to  send  it  to-morrow,  I  believe 
— well,  here  in  the  course  of  the  day) — comes  '  Luria '  and 
the  other — and  I  lay  it  at  my  dear  Lady's  feet,  wishing  it 
were  worthier  of  them,  and  only  comforted,  through  all  the 
conviction  of  the  offering's  unworthiness,  by  knowing  that 
she  will  know, — the  dear,  peerless,  all  precious  Ba  I  adore, 
will  know — that  I  would  give  her  my  life  gladlier  at  a 
word.  See  what  I  have  written  on  the  outside — '  to  Miss 
Barrett ' ! — because  I  thought  even  leaving  out  the  name 
might  look  suspiciously  !  But  where  no  eye  can  see ;  save 
your  dear  eye  .   .  there  is  written  a  dedication. 

Kiss  me,  dear  Ba.  May  God  bless  you.  Care  for 
everything — if  you  should  have  taken  cold  last  night,  for 
instance !  Talk  of  a  sword  suspended  by  a  hair ! — what  is 
the  feeling  of  one  whose  priceless  jewel  hangs  over  a  gulf 
by  a  hair?  Tell  me  all — I  love  you  wholly  and  am  wholly 
yours. 

See  the  strangely  dirty  paper — it  comes  from  my  desk 
where,  every  now  and  then,  a  candle  gets  over-set;  or  the 
snuffers  remain  open,  aghast  at  what  I  write ! 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  April  14,  1846.1 

Ever  dearest  I  have  your  two  letters ;  and  because  there 
are  only  two  c  great  lights  '  to  rule  the  day  and  the  night, 
I  am  not  likely  to  hear  from  you  again  before  to-morrow. 
Then  you  want  Mrs.  Jameson's  direction  .  .  (it  is  just 
Mrs.  Jameson,  Ealing !)  and  here  is  the  last  '  Bell  and 
Pomegranate ' — and,  for  all  these  reasons,  I  must  write 
without  waiting ;  I  will  not  wait  for  the  night.  Thank  you 
for  the  book,  thank  you !    I  turn  over  the  leaves  ever  so 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  67 

proudly.  Tell  me  liow  I  can  be  proud  of  you,  when  I  can- 
not be  proud  of  your  loving  me: — I  am  certainly  proud  of 
you.  One  of  my  first  searches  was  for  the  note  explana- 
tory of  the  title — aud  I  looked,  and  looked,  and  looked,  at 
the  end,  at  the  beginning,  at  the  end  again.  At  last  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  you  had  persisted  in  not  explaining,  or 
that  the  printer  had  dropped  the  manuscript.  Why,  what 
could  make  you  thrust  that  note  on  all  but  the  titlepage  of 
the  '  Soul's  Tragedy '?  Oh — I  comprehend.  Having  sub- 
mitted to  explain,  quite  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  you 
determined  at  least  to  do  it  where  nobody  could  see  it 
done.  Be  frank  and  tell  me  that  it  was  just  so.  Also  the 
poor  'Soul's  Tragedy,'  you  have  repudiated  so  from  the 
'  Bells  and  Pomegranates '  .  .  pushing  it  gently  aside. 
Well — you  must  allow  it  to  be  a  curious  dislocation — only 
it  is  not  important — and  I  like  the  note,  all  except  the  sen- 
tence about  'Faith  and  Works,'  which  does  not  apply,  I 
think,  .  .  that  instance.  '  Bells  and  Pomegranates '  is  a 
symbolic  phrase — which  the  other  is  not  at  all,  however 
much  difficult  and  doubtful  theological  argument  may  have 
arisen  from  it  as  a  collective  phrase.  So  I  am  the  first 
critic,  you  see,  notwithstanding  that  Mr.  Forster  waylaid 
the  first  copy.  Ah  no!  I  shall  have  my  gladness  out  of 
the  book  presently,  beyond  the  imagination  of  any  possible 
critic.  Who  in  the  world  shall  measure  gladnesses  with 
me? 

Tell  me — I  was  going  to  write  that  '  Tell  me '  in  my 
yesterday's  letter,  but  at  last  I  was  hurried,  and  could  not 
.  .  did  you  come  into  London  on  Sunday?  did  you  walk 
past  this  house  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  about  two 
o'clock?  Because  just  then  I  and  Flush  went  down  stairs. 
The  drawing  room  had  nobody  in  it,  and  the  window  being 
wide  open,  I  walked  straight  to  it  to  shut  it.  And  there, 
across  the  street,  walked  somebody  ...  I  am  so  near 
sighted  that  I  could  only  see  a  shadow  in  a  dimness  .  . 
but  the  shadow  had,  or  seemed  to  have,  a  sign  of  you,  a 
trace  of  you  .  .  .  and  instead  of  shutting  the  window  I 


68     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  14 

looked  after  it  till  it  vanished.  No,  it  was  not  you.  I  feel 
now  that  it  was  not  you ;  and  indeed  yesterday  I  felt  it  was 
not  you.  But,  for  the  moment,  it  made  my  heart  stop  beat- 
ing, .  .  that  insolent  shadow,  .  .  which  pretended  to  be 
you  and  wasn't.  Some  one,  I  dare  say,  who  '  has  an  occu- 
pation eight  or  nine  hours  a  day  '  and  never  does  any- 
thing !  I  may  speak  against  him,  for  deceiving  me — it's  a 
pure  justice. 

To  go  back  to  the  book  .  .  you  are  perfectly  right 
about  '  gadge, '  and  in  the  view  you  take  of  the  effect  of 
such  words.  You  misunderstood  me  if  you  fancied  that 
I  objected  to  the  word — it  was  simply  my  ignorance  which 
led  me  to  doubt  whether  you  had  written  '  gag. '  Of  course, 
the  horror  of  those  specialities  is  heightened  by  the  very 
want  of  distinct  understanding  they  meet  with  in  us : — it 
is  the  rack  in  the  shadow  of  the  vault.     Oh — I  fully  agree. 

And  now  .  .  dearest  dearest  .  .  do  not  bring  reason  to 
me  to  prove  .  .  .  what,  to  prove?  I  never  get  anything 
by  reason  on  this  subject,  be  very  sure ! — and  I  like  better 
to  feel  that  unreasonably  you  love  me — to  feel  that  you  love 
me  as,  last  year,  you  did.  Which  I  could  not  feel,  last 
year,  a  whole  day  or  even  half  a  day  together.  Now  the 
black  intervals  are  rarer  .  .  which  is  of  your  goodness, 
beloved,  and  not  of  mine.  For  me,  you  read  me  indeed  a 
famous  lesson  about  faith,  .  .  and  set  me  an  example  of 
how  you  '  believed ' !  .  .  .  but  it  does  not  apply,  this  les- 
son, .  .  it  does  not  resemble,  this  example ! — inasmuch 
as  what  you  had  to  believe  .  .  viz  that  roses  blow  in  June 
.  .  was  not  quite  as  difficult  as  what  Jam  called  to  believe, 
.  .  viz  that  St.  Cecilia's  angel- visitant  had  a  crown  of  roses 
on,  which  eternally  were  budding  and  blowing.  But  I  be- 
lieve .  .  believe  .  .  and  want  no  '  proof '  of  the  love,  but 
just  itself  to  prove  it, — for  nothing  else  is  worthy.  On  the 
other  side,  I  have  the  audacity  to  believe,  as  I  think  I  have 
told  you,  that  no  woman  in  the  world  could  feel  for  you 
exactly  what  .  .  .  but,  here,  too,  I  had  better  shun  the 
reasons,  .  .  the   '  bonnes    raisons '  which  '  le  roy  notre 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  69 

sire  '  cannot  abide. — What  foolishness  I  am  writing  really  ! 
And  is  it  to  be  for  a  '  year,'  or  a  '  month  ' — or  a  week, — 
better  still?  or  we  may  end  by  a  compromise  for  the  two 
hours  on  Wednesdays,   .   .  if  it  goes  on  so, — more  sensibly. 

I  have  heard  to-day  from  Miss  Martineau  and  from  Mrs. 
Jameson,  both — one  talking  Mesmer  and  the  other  Homer. 
I  sent  her  (Mrs.  J.)  two  versions  of  the  daughters  of  Pan- 
darus,  the  first  in  the  metre  you  know,  and  the  second  in 
blank  verse ;  .  .  and  she  does  not  decide  which  she  likes 
best,  she  says  graciously,  whereas  I  could  not  guess  which 
I  liked  worse,  when  I  sent  them  on  Saturday.  Do  let  her 
have  '  Luria  '  at  once.  She  will  take  the  right  gladness  in 
it,  even  as  she  appreciates  you  with  the  right  words  and 
thoughts.  But  surely  you  use  too  many  stamps?  Have 
you  a  pair  of  scales  like  Zeus  and  me?  .  .  only  mine  are 
broken,  or  I  would  send  you  an  authority  on  this  impor- 
tant subject,  as  well  as  an  opinion. 

How  did  you  not  get  my  letter,  pray,  by  the  first  post 
on  Monday?  You  ought  to  have  had  it!  it  was  not  my 
fault.  And  thinking  of  '  causas  rerum, '  .  .  I  was  to  '  catch 
cold,'  I  suppose,  on  Saturday,  because  you  went  away? — 
there  was  no  stronger  motive.  I  did  not  however  catch 
cold — ah,  how  you  make  me  giddy  with  such  words,  as 
if  I  did  really  '  hang  over  a  gulph' ! — not  with  fear  though ! 
Is  it  possible,  I  say  to  myself,  that  I  can  be  so  much  to 
him?  to  him!  May  God  bless  him!  There  was  no  harm 
meant  by  the  black  seal,  I  think?  Tell  me  too  of  the 
headache,  and  whether  the  dinner  is  for  Wednesday,  and 
whether,  in  that  case,  it  is  still  to  be  preferred,  with  all  its 
close  clipping,  to  Thursday.  Meantime  the.letter  grows  as 
if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  shears ! 

Tour  own 
Ba. 


70     THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  14 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  April  14,  1846.] 

I  waited  till  this  second  letter  should  arrive — feeling 
that  it  would  be  easier  to  address  the  answer  to  this. 

About  the  other, — that  part  which  you  bid  me  not  refer 
to.  You  are  obeyed  now — my  time  will  come  in  its  turn, 
and  I  will  try  and  speak.  With  respect  to  the  immediate 
leaving  England,  you  will  let  me  say,  I  think,  that  all  my 
own  projects  depend  on  that, — there  will  not  be  one  least 
objection  made  to  it  by  my  father  or  mother,  I  know  be- 
forehand. You  perhaps  misconceived  something  I  said  last 
Saturday.  I  meant  the  obvious  fact  however — that  while 
there  would  be  a  best  way  of  finding  myself  with  you,  still, 
from  the  worst  way  (probably,  of  taking  a  house  opposite 
Mrs.  Procter's) — from  that  even,  to  the  best  way  of  any 
other  life  I  can  imagine,- — what  a  descent!  From  the 
worst  of  roses  to  the  most  flourishing  of— dandelions. 
But  we  breathe  together,  understand  together,  know,  feel, 
live  together  .  .  I  feel  every  day  less  and  less  need  of  try- 
ing to  assure  you  1  feel  thus  and  thus — I  seem  to  know 
that  you  must  knoiu  ! 

Mrs.  Procter  is  very  exactly  the  Mrs.  Procter  I  knew 
long  ago.  What  she  says  is  of  course  purely  foolish.  The 
world  does  seem  incurably  stupid  on  this,  as  other  points. 
I  understand  Mr.  Kenyon's  implied  kindness — that  is, — 
understand  he  may  think  he  sees  my  true  good  in  this  life 
with  older  anel  better  instructed  eyes  than  my  own — so 
benevolent  people  beg  me  (  not  to  go  out  in  the  open  air — 
without  something  about  my  neck, '  and  would  gird  on  a 
triple  worsted  '  comforter '  there,  entirely  for  my  good,  if 
I  would  let  them.  '  Why,  Mr.  Procter  wears  one!'  Ah, 
but  without  it,  what  a  cold  he  would  catch ! 

The  explanatory  note  fills  up  an  unseemly  blank  page 
— and  does  not  come  at  the  end  of  the  '  Soul's  Tragedy  ' — 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEEETT  71 

prose  after  prose — still  it  does  look  awkwardly — but  then 
I  don't  consider  that  it  excludes  this  last  from  the  '  Bells  ' 
— rather  it  says  this  is  the  last,  (no,  nine  if  you  like, — as 
the  title  says  eight  and  last ' — from  whence  will  be  this  ad- 
vantage, that,  in  the  case  of  another  edition,  all  the  lyrics 
&c.  may  go  together  under  one  common  head  of  Lyrics  and 
Romances — and  the  'Soul's  Tragedy,'  profiting  by  the 
general  move-up  of  the  rest  of  the  numbers,  after  the  fash- 
ion of  hackney  coaches  on  a  stand  when  one  is  called 
off,  step  into  the  place  and  take  the  style  of  No.  8 — and 
the  public  not  find  themselves  defrauded  of  the  proper 
quantity !) 

And  shall  I  indeed  see  you  to-morrow,  Ba?  I  will  tell 
you  many  things,  it  seems  to  me  now,  but  when  I  am  with 
you  they  always  float  out  of  mind.  The  feelings  must  re- 
main unwritten — unsung  too,  I  fear.  I  very  often  fancy 
that  if  I  had  never  before  resorted  to  that  mode  of  expres- 
sion, to  singing,- — poetry — now  I  should  resort  to  it,  dis- 
cover it  i  Whereas  now — my  very  use  and  experience  of 
it  deters  me — if  one  phrase  of  mine  should  seem  '  poeti- 
cal' in  Mrs.  Procter's  sense — a  conscious  exaggeration, — 
put  in  for  effect !  only  seem,  I  say  !  So  I  dare  not  try  yet 
— but  one  day  ! 

Ba,  I  kept  your  letter  yesterday,  about  me — it  lay  by 
my  head  at  night — that  its  good  might  not  go  from  me, — 
such  perfect  good !  How  strange  to  hear  what  you  say  of 
my  letters,  —  of  such  and  such  a  letter — some  seem  kind, 
and  kinder  and  kindest — and  how  should  I  guess  why? 
My  life  and  love  flow  steadily  under  all  those  bubbles,  or 
many  or  less — it  is  through  the  under  current  that,  what- 
ever you  see,  does  appear,  no  doubt — but  also  where  noth- 
ing appears, — all  is  one  depth! 

Bless  you,  all  dearest  beloved. 

To-morrow,  Wednesday! 

Ever  your  very  own, 


72     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  16 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  April  16,  1846.] 

This  morning,  you  would  never  guess  what  I  have  been 
doing. — Buying  a  bonnet!  That  looks  like  a  serious  pur- 
pose of  going  out,  walking  out,  driving  out  .  .  now  doesn't 
it?  And  having  chosen  one  a  little  like  a  quaker's,  as 
I  thought  to  myself,  I  am  immediately  assured  by  the 
learned  that  c  nothing  can  be  more  fashionable  '  .  .  which 
is  a  most  satisfactory  proof  of  blind  instinct,  .  .  feeling 
towards  the  Bude  lights  of  the  world,  and  which  Mrs. 
Procter  would  highly  esteem  me  for,  if  she  did  but 
know  it. 

In  the  meanwhile  assure  yourself  that  I  understand 
perfectly  your  feeling  about  the  subject  of  yesterday. 
Flies  are  flies,  and  yet  they  are  vexatious  with  their  buz- 
zing, as  flies.  Only  Mrs.  Jameson  told  me  the  other  day 
that  a  remedy  against  the  mosquitos  .  .  polvere  di  morchia 
.  .  had  been  discovered  lately  in  Italy,  so  that  the  world 
might  sleep  there  in  peace — as  you  may  here  .  .  let  us 
talk  no  more  of  it.  I  think  I  should  not  have  told  you  if 
I  had  not  needed  it  for  a  talking-ladder  to  something  else. 
For  the  rest,  it  is  amusing  to  me,  quite  amusing,  to  ob- 
serve how  people  cannot  conceive  of  work  except  under 
certain  familiar  forms.  Men  who  dig  in  ditches  have  an 
idea  that  the  man  who  leads  the  plough  rather  rests  than 
works :  and  all  men  of  out-door  labour  distrust  the  indus- 
try of  the  manufacturers  in-doors — while  both  manufac- 
turers and  out-door  labourers  consider  the  holders  of  offices 
and  clerkships  as  idle  men  .  .  gentlemen  at  ease.  Then 
between  all  these  classes  and  the  intellectual  worker,  the 
difference  is  wider,  and  the  want  of  perception  more  com- 
plete. The  work  of  creation,  nobody  will  admit  .  .  though 
everybody  has  by  heart,  without  laying  it  to  heart,  that 
God  rested  on  the  seventh  day.  Looking  up  to  the  stars 
at  nights,  they  might  as  well  take  all  to  be  motionless — 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  73 

though  if  there  were  no  motion  there  would  be  no  morn- 
ing .  .  and  they  look  for  a  morning  after  all.  Why  who 
could  mind  such  obtuse  stupidity  ?  It  is  the  stupidity  of 
mankind,  par  excellence  of  foolishness !  The  hedger  and 
ditcher  they  see  working,  but  God  they  do  not  see  work- 
ing. If  one  built  a  palace  without  noise  and  confusion 
and  the  stroke  of  hammers,  one  would  scarcely  get  credit 
for  it  in  this  world  .  .  so  full  of  virtue  and  admiration  it 
is,  to  make  a  noise !  Even  I,  you  see,  who  said  just  now 
'  Talk  no  more  of  it, '  talk  more  and  more,  and  make  more 
noise  than  is  necessary.  Here  is  an  end  though — we  leave 
Mrs.  Procter  here.  And  do  not  think  that  the  least  word 
of  disrespect  was  said  of  you — indeed  it  was  not !  neither 
disrespect  nor  reproach.  So  you  and  I  will  forgive  every- 
body henceforward,  for  wishing  you  to  be  rich.  And  if 
Mrs.  Procter  would  '  commit  suicide  '  rather  than  live  as 
you  like  to  live,  /will  not,  as  long  as  you  are  not  tired 
of  me — and  that,  just  now  and  as  things  are,  is  of  a  little 
more  consequence  perhaps.  .  . 

Scarcely  had  you  gone,  dearest,  yesterday,  when  I  had 
two  letters  with  the  very  prose  of  life  in  them,  dropping 
its  black  blotchy  oil  upon  all  the  bright  colours  of  our 
poetry !  I  groaned  in  the  spirit  to  read,  and  to  have  to 
answer  them.  First  was  a  Miss  Georgiana  Bennet — did 
you  ever  hear  of  her? — /  never  did  before,  but  that  was 
my  base  ignorance ;  for  she  is  a  most  voluminous  writer  it 
appears  .  .  and  sent  me  five  or  six  'ivories'  (observe),  .  . 
published  under  the  '  high  sanction  '  (and  reiterated  sub- 
scription) of  ever  so  many  Royal  Highnesses  and  Right 
Reverends  .  .  .  written  in  prose  and  verse,  upon  female 
education  and  the  portrait  of  Harrison  Ainsworth  ('  I  gaze 
upon  that  noble  face,  and  bright  expressive  eyes !'),  miscel- 
laneous subjects  of  that  sort! — also,  there  is  a  poem  of 
some  length,  called  '  The  Poetess, '  which  sets  forth  in  de- 
tail how  Miss  Georgiana  Bennet  has  found  the  laurel  on  her 
brow  a  mere  nightshade,  and  the  glories  of  fame  no  com- 
fort in  the  world.     Well— all  these  books  were  sent  to  me, 


74     THE  LETTEES  OF  KOBEBT  BBOWNING-  [April  16 

with  a  note  hortative — giving  indeed  a  very  encouraging 
opinion  of  my  poems  generally,  but  desiring  me  to  con- 
sider, that  poets  write  both  for  the  learned  and  the  un- 
learned, and  that  in  fact  I  am  in  the  habit  of  using  a  great 
many  hard  words,  much  to  the  confusion  of  the  latter  large 
class  of  readers.  She  has  heard  (Georgiana  has)  that  I 
am  a  classical  scholar  which  of  course  (of  course)  accounts 
for  this  peculiarity  .  .  but  it  is  the  duty  of  one's  friends 
to  tell  one  of  one's  faults,  which  is  the  principle  she  goes 
upon.  In  return  for  which  benevolence,  I  am  requested 
to  send  back  a  copy  of  my  poems  directly,  and  to  '  think 
of  her,  as  she  thinks  of  me. '  There  an  end.  The  next 
letter  is  from  a  Mrs.  Milner,  who  used  to  edit  the  '  Chris- 
tian Mother's  Magazine  ' ;  the  most  idiotic  tract-literature, 
that  magazine  was,  but  supported  by  the  Queen  dowager 
and  a  whole  train  of  Duchesses  proper — very  proper  in- 
deed !  She  used  to  edit  the  '  Christian  Mother, '  but  now 
she  has  '  generalised  '  it,  she  says,  to  the  '  Englishwoman's 
Magazine  '  and  wants  me  to  write  for  it  and  says.  .  . 

Oh — I  cannot  have  patience  to  go  on  to  tell  you.  Be- 
sides you  will  take  me  to  be  too  bitter,  when  I  ought  to  be 
grateful  perhaps !  But  if  you  knew  how  hard  it  is  for  me 
to  have  to  read  and  write  sometimes,  as  if  you  were  not  in 
the  world  with  me  ..  as  if  ...  Is  it  wrong  to  laugh  a 
little,  to  put  it  off, — only  to  you,  though?  And  do  you 
know,  I  feel  ill  at  ease  in  my  conscience,  on  account  of 
what  I  said  (even  to  you)  about  Mrs,  Paine,  who  came  to 
see  me,  you  remember;  and  because  she  has  written  me  a 
letter  which  quite  affected  me,  I  shall  send  it  for  you  to 
read,  to  undo  any  false  impression.  Then  you  will  not 
dislike  reading  it  on  other  grounds.  She  is  very  different 
from  the  Georgiana  Bennets,  and  I  am  interested  in  her, 
and  touched  aright  by  what  she  says. 

You  will  write.  You  think  of  me?  I  am  better  to-day, 
much — and  it  is  strange  to  be  so,  when  you  are  not  here. 
Ever  dearest,  let  your  thoughts  be  with  me  — 

I  am  vour  own  .  . 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  75 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  April  16,  1846.] 

How  are  you  now,  dearest?  If  the  worse  for  my  visit 
.  .  No,  there  is  no  affectation  in  what  I  would  say  — you 
might  be  worse,  you  know,  through  excitement,  whether 
pleasurable  or  the  reverse.  One  comfort  is,  the  walking, 
going  downstairs,  &c.  have  not  occasioned  it.  I  expect 
everything  from  your  going  out  of  doors,  that  is  to  be — 
what  a  joy  to  write  it,  think  of  it,  expect  it !  Oh,  why  are 
you  not  here — where  I  sit  writing ;  whence,  in  a  moment,  I 
could  get  to  know  why  the  lambs  are  bleating  so,  in  the 
field  behind — I  do  not  see  it  from  either  window  in  this 
room — but  I  see  a  beautiful  sunshine  (2£  p.m.)  and  a  chest- 
nut tree  leafy  all  over,  in  a  faint  trembling  chilly  way,  to 
be  sure — and  a  holly  hedge  I  see,  and  shrubs,  and  blos- 
somed trees  over  the  garden  wall, — were  you  but  here, 
dearest,  dearest — how  we  would  go  out,  with  Flush  on  be- 
fore, for  with  a  key  I  have,  I  lock  out  the  world,  and  then 
look  down  on  it ;  for  there  is  a  vast  view  from  our  greatest 
hill — did  I  ever  tell  you  that  Wordsworth  was  shown  that 
hill  or  its  neighbour;  someone  saying  '  E.  B.  lives  over 
there  by  that  hill  ' — '  Hill '?  interposed  Wordsworth — '  ive 
call  that,  such  as  that,  a  rise ' !  I  must  have  told  you, 
I  think.  (While  I  write,  the  sun  gets  ever  brighter — you 
must  be  downstairs,  I  feel  sure — ) 

I  fully  meant  to  go  out  this  morning — but  there  is  a 
pressing  note  from  my  old  young  friend,  Frank  Talfourd, 
to  get  me  to  witness — only  another  play  and  farce ! — and 
what  is  to  be  done? 

Here  shall  be  my  ending  '  for  reasons,  for  reasons. ' 
To-morrow  I  will  write  more;  my  Monday — to  have  to 
wait  so  long !  And  when  I  do  see  you,  I  begin  to  pour 
out  profusions  of  confusions  of  speech  about  Mrs.  Procter 
and  her  vain  notions — to  what  earthly  good?  .  .  as  it  is 


76     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  16 

very  easy  to  ask  now !  now  that  I  am  here  again,  alone 
again. 

Dear,  dearest  Ba,  I  cannot  serve  you,  nor  even  talk 
to  you  .  .  but  love  you,- — oh,  that  I  must  dare  say  I  can 
do,  as  none  other  could— as  you  have  yet  to  know! 

Bless  you  my  very  dearest,  sweetest  Ba — I  am  your 
own,  heart  and  soul — 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  April  17,  1846. 

Ah,  the  chestnut  tree :  do  you  think  that  I  never  saw 
the  chestnut  tree  before?  Long  ago,  I  did  .  .  a  full  year 
ago  or  more — more !  A  voice  talked  to  me  of  the  '  west 
wind '  which  '  set  dancing  the  baby  cones  of  my  chestnut 
tree  ' — nearly  I  remember  the  words.  Do  you,  the  time? 
It  was  early  in  the  morning — '  before  seven, '  said  the  voice ! 
— too  early  in  the  morning  for  my  dream  to  be — because  a 
dream,  says  Lord  Brougham  when  he  tries  at  philosophy, 
a  dream,  if  ever  so  long  a  dream,  is  all  contained  in  the 
last  moment  of  sleep,  at  the  turn  towards  waking — so, 
late  and  not  early  ! 

No — you  did  not  tell  me  of  Wordsworth — not  at  least, 
after  that  reading.  Perhaps  if  Hatcham  should  not  be 
swept  away  in  the  Kailway  '  scirocco, '  I  may  see  the  '  hill ' 
or  the  '  rise  '  at  some  distant  day.  Shall  I,  do  you  think? 
I  would  rather  see  it  than  Wordsworth's  mountains — '  for 
reasons,  for  reasons  '  as  you  say.  And  talking  of  reasons, 
and  reasonable  people  in  general,  I  thought,  .  .  after  you 
went  away  on  Wednesday,  and  I  began  to  remember  how 
you  had  commended  your  own  common  sense  and  mine, — 
I  thought  that  it  might  be  very  well  for  you  to  do  it,  inas- 
much as  nobody  else  would,  for  you !  Onip  aoo  as  the 

theological  critics  intensify  £>nip  to  the  genitive,  '  for  rea- 
sons, for  reasons.' 

How  '  Luria '  takes  possession  of  me  more  and  more ! 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  77 

Such  a  noble  work ! — of  a  fulness,  a  moral  grandeur ! — and 
the  language  everywhere  worthy.  Tell  me  what  you  hear 
the  people  say — I  shall  be  anxious,  which  you  will  not  be 
— but,  to  me,  you  will  forgive  it.  '  The  Soul's  Tragedy  '  is 
wonderful — it  suggests  the  idea  of  more  various  power 
than  was  necessary  to  the  completion  of  '  Luria '  .  . 
though  in  itself  not  a  comparable  work.  But  you  never 
wrote  more  vivid  dramatic  dialogue  than  that  first  part — it 
is  exquisite  art,  it  appears  to  me.  Tell  me  what  the  people 
say ! — and  tell  me  what  the  gods  say  .  .  Landor,  for  in- 
stance ! 

Mr.  Kenyon  has  not  been  here — and  I  dare  not,  even 
in  a  letter,  be  the  first  to  talk  to  anyone  of  you.  If  is  fool- 
ish of  me  perhaps — but  if  I  whisper  your  name  I  expect  to 
be  directly  answered  by  all  the  thunders  of  Heaven  and 
cannons  of  earth.  When  I  was  writing  to  Miss  Martineau 
the  other  day,  for  full  ten  minutes  I  held  the  pen  ready 
charged  with  ink  over  a  little  white  place,  just  to  say 
'have  you  read,'  .  .  or  'have  you  heard'  .  .  .  and  at 
last  I  couldn't  write  one  word  of  those  words  .  .  I  believe 
I  said  something  about  landed  proprietors  and  agrarian 
laws  instead. 

So  you  'felt '  that  I  was  down  stairs  to-day  !  See  how 
wrong  feeling  may  be,  when  it  has  to  do  with  such  as  I. 
For,  dearest,  notwithstanding  your  bright  sunshine  I  did 
not  go  down  stairs  .  .  only  opened  the  window  and  let  in 
the  air.  I  have  not  been  quite  as  well,  as  far  as  just  sen- 
sation goes,  as  usual,  these  few  days — but  it  is  nothing,  a 
passing  common  headache,  as  I  told  you,  .  .  and  your 
visit  did  good  rather  than  harm,  and  to-morrow  you  may 
think  of  me  as  in  the  drawing-room.  Oh,  I  might  have 
been  there  to-day,  or  yesterday,  or  the  day  before !  but  it 
was  pleasanter  to  sit  in  the  chair  and  be  idle,  so  I  sate ! 
But  you  did  not  see  me  in  my  gondola  chair — not  you ! 
you  were  thinking  of  the  lambs  instead,  and  looking  over 
the  wall  to  the  '  blossomed  trees  '  .  .  (what  trees?  cherry- 
trees?  appletrees?  peartrees?)  and  so,  altogether,  you  lost 


78     THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBERT  BKOWNING  [April  17 

your  second  sight  of  me  and  made  mistakes.  Ever  dear- 
est, is  your  head  better?  You  will  not  say.  You  are  afraid 
to  say,  perhaps,  that  you  were  ill,  through  writing  too 
many  notes  and  not  going  out  to  take  the  right  exercise. 
Ah,  do  remember  me  for  that  good!  I  heard  yesterday 
that  '  Mr.  Browning  looked  very  pale  as  he  came  upstairs.' 
Which  comes  of  Mr.  Browning's  writing  when  he  should 
be  walking ! — now  doesn't  it? 

Do  you  go  to  Mr.  Sergeant  Talfourd's  on  Monday?  and 
would  it  be  better  therefore  if  you  came  here  on  Tuesday  ? 
You  could  come  on  the  next  Saturday  all  the  same — con- 
sider !  Nobody  shall  leap  into  lions'  dens  for  me !  so  let 
us  measure  the  convenience  of  things,  as  Miss  Mitford 
would  in  marriages.  '  Convenance, '  though,  she  would 
say — which  is  more  foolish  than  '  convenience  '  as  I  write 
it.  She  asserts  that  every  marriage  in  her  experience,  be- 
ginning by  any  sort  of  love,  has  ended  miserably — thus 
run  her  statistics  in  matrimony.  Add,  that  she  thinks — 
she  told  me  last  autumn — that  all  men  without  exception 
are  essentially  tyrants, — and  that  poets  are  a  worse  species 
of  men,  seeing  that,  all  human  feelings,  they  put  into  their 
verses,  and  leave  them  there  .  .  .  add  this,  and  this,  and 
then  calculate  how,  if  I  consulted  her  on  our  prospects 
(shall  I?),  she  would  see  for  me  an  infinite  succession  of  in- 
definite thumbscrews  and  gadges  !  !  Well — I  am  not  afraid 
— except  for  you  sometimes  i  for  myself  I  accept  my  chances 
for  life  under  the  peine  forte  et  dure.  And  I  won't  speak  to 
Miss  Mitford,  if  you  don't  to  Mr.  Kenyon  .  .  and  I  be- 
seech you  to  avoid  by  every  legitimate  means  the  doing 
that  .   .  oh,  do  not  ever  speak  that  to  him ! 

May  God  bless  you  my  beloved ! —  Walk  for  my  sake, 
and  be  well,  try  to  be  well !  For  me,  I  am  so  without  try- 
ing,  .  .  just  as  I  am 

Your  own 
Ba. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  79 


R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  April  17,  1846.] 

No,  my  own  dearest,  I  did  not  see  you  sit  in  your 
chair,  nor  in  mine,  yesterday — did  I  write  nothing  about 
your  walking  with  me  by  the  garden  wall,  and  on  the  hill, 
and  looking  down  on  London  ?  And  afterwards  you  went 
with  me,  indeed,  to  Talfourd's  (last  night  was  that  purga- 
torial business, — how  could  I  make  you  think  it  related  to 
Monday  ?)  If  I  have  to  put  the  least  thing  into  words,  so 
I  put  it  always  !  Being  just  like  the  family  of  somebody — 
'  who  were  one  and  all  so  stupid '  said  he — '  that  if  you 
bade  them  spell  A  B  they  answered  B  A — '  Nay,  I  spell 
Happiness,  and  Blessing,  and  all  other  good  words  if  ever 
so  many  letters  by  that  same  Ba !  But  I  want  to  go  on 
and  say  you  kept  me  from  such  an  undiluted  evening  of 
misery  (because  I  saw  you  through  it  all) — oh,  such  an 
evening!— it  shall  be  the  last,  I  think — and  the  going  out 
is  so  near, — the  bonnet  is  bought!  And  you  pretend  not  to 
know  I  would  walk  barefoot  till  I  dropped,  if  so  I  might 
attain  to  the  sight  of  you,  and  it.  Do  let  me  say,  for  grati- 
tude's sake — it  is  like  the  sign  of  spring  in  Shelley's  '  Pro- 
metheus ' — 

When  'mild  winds  shake  the  elder-brake, 
And  the  wandering  herdsmen  know 
That  the  white  thorn  soon  will  Moid  ': 

— that  the  flower  of  my  life  will  blow !  Now  let  me  try  and 
answer  everything  in  Ba's  darling  letters  and  so  not  be 
'vexed'  afterward, — recollecting  how  she  asked  this,  or 
bade  me  be  sure  to  reply  to  that,  and  how  I  answered, 
spelling  A  B  for  B  A !  First,  there  is  a  famous  contriv- 
ance against  fly  tormentors,  a  genuine  canojjy,  gnat-repel- 
ling enclosure  of  muslin  which  covers  your  bed  wholly, 
and  into  which  once  introduce  yourself  dexterously  (be- 
cause the  plagues  try  to  follow  slily)  and  lo,  you  are  in  a 


80     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  17 

syren's  isle  within  the  isle,  a  world  cut  off  from  the  outer 
one  by  that  fine  hazy  cloudish  gauze — a  delight  it  is! 
Only,  if  you  let  one  persisting  critic  of  a  buzzer  lie  perdue, 
he  will  have  you  at  a  glorious  advantage —  (not  that  one 
ever  bit  me,  in  England  or  elsewhere)  And  now — your  let- 
ters,-— Miss  Bennets'  letter  that  you  received  '  just  after  I 
had  gone  ' — will  you  be  edified  if  I  tell  you  what  /received 
the  moment  I  got  home?  (once,  beforehand — my  experi- 
ence or  yours,  which  would  you  rather  not  have?)  My 
sister  pointed  with  immense  solemnity  to  a  packet, — then 
delivered  a  message,  and  then — but  hear  the  message — a 
'  Mrs.  George  Sharp '  (unless  I  mistake  the  name)  lives 
next  door  to  Dickens  and  awfully  respects  him — she  asks 
one  aunt  of  mine,  to  ask  another,  to  ask  my  sister,  to  ask 
me  .  .  who  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  this  Mrs.  George, 
— me,  who  am,  she  has  understood,  a  friend  of  Dickens, — 
to  get  inserted  in  the  Daily  Neivs  some  paragraph  of  a 
reasonable  length  in  recommendation  of  the  accompanying 
packet  of  cough-drops,  (lozenges,  or  pills— for  I  was  not 
rightly  instructed  which) — ■  my  fee,  I  suppose,  being  the 
said  packet  of  pills !     All  comment  is  beyond  me. 

Well,  but  your  Mrs.  Bennet — what  a  wretched,  disgust- 
ing sfacciataccia !  I  would  not  be  accessory  to  keeping 
those  soapy  bubbles  of  stupid  vanity  from  bursting,  by 
spariug  a  rough  finger,  certainly  not.  How  '  ought  you 
to  be  grateful,  perhaps?  '     For  ivhat  on  earth? 

Dearest,  dearest  Ba, — a  'passing'  headache  of  'these 
few  days,'  what  can  I  say,  or  do?  May  God  bless  you, 
and  care  for  all.  Still  the  comfort  continues,  it  is  not  that 
you  have  made  an  effort,  and  so  grown  worse. 

I  am  pretty  well, — I  half  determine  to  go  out  and  see 
Carry le  to-night,— so  to  forget  a  hasty  resolution  against 
all  company  ('  other '  company  I  had  written  .  .  as  if  to 
honour  it —  Ba's  is  one  company,  and  those  people's! — 
'  another ' ! )  — I  think  I  will  go. 

I  spoke  about  Mr.  Kenyon, — because  I  never  would  in 
my  life  take  a  step  for  myself  (if  that  could  be),  apart  from 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  81 

your  good,  without  being  guided  by  you  where  possible — 
much  more,  therefore,  in  a  matter  directly  concerning  you 
rather  than  me,  did  I  want  y  our  opinion  as  to  the  course 
most  proper,  in  the  event  of  &c.  I  do  not  think  it  likely  he 
will  speak,  or  I  shall  have  to  answer  .  .  but  if  that  did 
happen,  and  you  were  not  at  hand,  my  own  dearest, — how 
I  should  be  grieved  if,  answering  wrongly,  I  gave  you  an- 
noyance !     Here  I  seem  to  understand  your  wish. 

My  Ba,  my  only,  utterly  dear  love,  may  God  reward 
you  for  your  blessing  to  me — my  whole  heart  turns  to  you 
— and  in  your  own.  I  kiss  you,  dearest — this  morning 
a  very  ordinary  motivetto  in  the  overture  to  '  Rabuco ' 
seemed  to  tell  you  more  than  i"  ever  shall — I  sit  and  speak 
to  you  by  that,  now ! 

E.  B. 

No  letters  yet  from  '  anybody  ' — the  few  received  are 
laudatory  however — I  will  send  you  one  from  the  old  sailor- 
friend  I  told  you  of — but,  mark !  you  must  not  send  it 
back,  to  show  my  eyes  and  grieve  my  heart,  when  the  bulky 
letter  proves  to  be  only  this — returned !  Landor's  in  due 
time,  I  suppose !  This  I  send  is  to  make  you  laugh  .  .  My 
Ba's  dear  laugh  can  hurt  nobody,  not  even  my  friend  here 
—who  has  praised  her  poems  more  to  me,  there's  my  con- 
solation, — Oonsuelo — 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  April  18,  1846.] 

But,  dearest  of  all,  you  never  said  a  word  about  Mon- 
day. So  I  did  not  misunderstand — I  only  misguessed. 
Because  you  did  not  mention  any  day,  I  took  it  into  my 
head  that  you  might  perhaps  be  invited  for  Monday,  and 
make  an  effort,  which  would  make  a  fatigue,  and  go  there 
and  come  here.  I  am  glad  you  went  to  Carlyle's — and 
where  is  Tennyson,  and  the  dinner  at  Forster's  all  this 
while?  And  how  did  the  Talfourds  torment  you  so?  was 
Vol.  II.  —6 


82     THE  LETTEKS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  18 

it  that  you  were  very  unwell?  I  fear  you  were  unwell. 
For  me,  I  have  recovered  from  my  dreadful  illness  of  the 
last  day  or  two  .  .  I  knew  I  should  survive  it  after  all  .  . 
and  to-day,  just  that  I  might  tell  you,  I  went  down  stairs 
with  Flush,  he  running  before  as  when  ice  walk  together 
through  the  gate.  I  opened  the  drawing-room  door;  when 
instead  of  advancing  he  stopped  short  .  .  and  I  heard 
strange  voices — and  then  he  drew  back  and  looked  up  in 
my  face  exactly  as  if  to  say,  '  No !  This  will  not  do  for 
us ! — we  had  better  go  home  again. '  Surely  enough,  visi- 
tors were  in  the  room  .  .  and  he  and  I  returned  upon  our 
steps.  But  think  of  his  sense !  Flush  beats  us  both  in 
'  common  sense, '  dearest,  we  must  acknowledge,  let  us 
praise  each  other  for  it  ever  so.  Next  to  Flush  we  may  be 
something,  but  Flush  takes  the  j^s,  as  when  he  runs  down 
stairs. 

To-day  Mr.  Kenyon  came,  spectacles  and  all.  He 
sleeps  in  those  spectacles  now,  I  think.  Well,  and  the 
first  question  was  .  .  '  Have  you  seen  Mr.  Browning? 
And  what  did  he  come  for  again,  pray  ?  '  '  Why  I  sup- 
pose, '  I  said,  '  for  the  bad  reason  my  visitors  have  in  gen- 
eral, when  they  come  to  see  me  ' —  Then,  very  quickly  I 
asked  about  '  Luria, '  and  if  he  had  read  it  and  what  he 
thought  of  it — upon  which,  the  whole  pomegranate  was 
pulled  out  of  his  pocket,  and  he  began  to  talk  like  the 
agreeable  man  he  can  be  when  he  doesn't  ask  questions  and 
look  discerningly  through  spectacles.  '  Luria  '  was  prop- 
erly praised  indeed.  A  very  noble  creation,  he  thought  it, 
and  heroically  pathetic  .  .  and  much  struck  he  seemed  to 
be  with  the  power  you  had  thrown  out  on  the  secondary 
characters,  lifting  them  all  to  the  height  of  humanity,  jus- 
tifying them  by  their  own  lights.  Oh — he  saw  the  good- 
ness, and  the  greatness,  the  art,  and  the  moral  glory ;  we 
had  a  great  deal  of  talk.  And  when  he  tried  to  find  out  a 
few  darknesses,  I  proved  to  him  that  they  were  clear  noon- 
day blazes  instead,  and  that  his  eyes  were  just  dazzled. 
Then  the  '  Soul's  Tragedy  '  made  the  right  impression — a 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  83 

wonderful  work  it  is  for  suggestions,  and  the  conception  of 
it  as  good  a  test  of  the  writer's  genius,  as  any  we  can  refer 
to.  We  talked  and  talked.  And  then  he  put  the  book 
into  his  pocket  to  carry  it  away  to  some  friend  of  his,  un- 
named :  and  we  had  some  conversation  about  poets  in  gen- 
eral and  their  way  of  living,  of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge. 
I  like  to  hear  Mr.  Kenyon  talk  of  the  gods  and  how  he 
used  to  sit  within  the  thunder-peal.  Presently  leaning  up 
against  the  chimney-piece, — he  said  quietly  .  .  '  Do  you 
not  think — oh,  I  am  sure  I  need  not  ask  you — in  fact  I 
know  your  thoughts  of  it  .  .  but  how  strikingly  upright 
and  loyal  in  all  his  ways  and  acts,  Mr.  Browning  is  ! — how 
impeccable  as  a  gentleman '  &c.  &c.  and  so  on  and  on  .  . 
I  do  not  tell  you  any  more,  because  I  should  be  tired  per- 
haps .  .  (do  you  understand?)  and  this  is  not  the  first 
time,  nor  second,  nor  third  time  that  he  has  spoken  of  you 
personally,  so  .  .  and  as  no  man  could  use  more  reverent 
language  of  another.  And  all  this  time,  what  has  become 
of  Walter  Savage  Landor?  I  shall  be  vexed  in  another 
day.  He  may  be  from  home  perhaps — there  must  be  a 
reason. 

Yive  Pritchard !  and  thank  you  for  letting  me  see  what 
he  wrote. 

Oh — and  you  shall  see  what  I  did  not  send  yesterday — 
I  shall  make  you  read  this  one  sheet  of  Mrs.  Paine's  letter, 
because  it  really  touched  me,  and  because  I  am  bound  to 
undo  the  effects  of  my  light  speaking.  As  for  the  over- 
praise of  myself,  the  overkindness  in  every  respect,  .  . 
why  we  know  how  '  sermons  are  found  in  stones  '  .  .  .  yet 
no  praise  to  the  stones  on  that  account!  But  you  shall 
read  what  I  send,  both  for  her  sake  and  mine,  .  .  because 
I  like  you  to  read  it. 

My  own  dearest,  do  you  mind  what  I  say,  and  take 
exercise?  You  are  vexing  yourself  with  those  notes,  as  I 
see  from  here.  Now  take  care — follow  my  example,  and 
be  well — if  not,  there  will  be  no  use  in  wellness  to  me! 
May  God  bless  you !    Do  you  remember  when  you  wrote 


84     THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNING  [April  18 

first  to  me  '  May  God  bless  you  and  me  in  that ! '  It  was  be- 
fore we  met.  Can  you  guess  what  I  thought?  I  have  the 
whole  effect  in  my  memory  distinctly.  I  felt  with  a  bitter 
feeling,  that  it  was  quite  a  pity  to  throw  away  such  beau- 
tiful words  out  of  the  window  into  the  dark.  '  Bitterly' 
does  not  mean  anything  wrong  or  harsh,  you  know.  But 
there  was  something  painful  .  .  as  if  the  words  were  too 
near,  for  the  speaker  to  be  so  far.  Well — I  am  glad  in 
looking  back  .  .  yes,  glad  .  .  glad  to  be  certain  at  my 
heart,  that  I  did  not  assume  anything  .  .  stretch  out  my 
hand  for  anything  .  .  dearest!  .  . 

It  is  always  when  one  is  asleep  that  the  dream-angels 
come.     Watchers  see  nothing  but  ghosts. 

Yet  I  shall  see  you  on  Monday,  and  shall  watch  and 
wait  as  those  who  wait  for  the  morning  .  .  that  is,  the 
Monday-morning !     Till  when  and  ever  after,  I  am 

Your  own 
Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  April  18,  1846.] 

So  my  dear,  own  Ba  has  good  sense,  best  sense — what- 
ever Flush's  maybe!  Do  you  think  .  .  (to  take  the  ex- 
treme horn  of  a  certain  dilemma  I  see)  .  .  that — 

Now,  dearest,  somehow  I  can't  write  the  great  proof 
down — I  will  tell  you  on  Monday — as  to  my  good  sense.  I 
was  wrong  to  give  such  a  praise  to  myself  in  the  particular 
case  you  were  alluding  to  at  the  time — the  good  sense  of 
the  bird  which  finds  out  its  mate  amid  a  forest-full  of  birds 
of  another  kind !  Why  the  poorest  brown  butterfly  will 
seek  out  a  brown  stone  in  a  gravel  walk,  or  brown  leaf  in  a 

flower  bed,  to  settle  on  and  be  happy (And  I  suppose 

even  dear  Carlyle  is  no  longer  my  brown  leaf;  at  least,  I 
could  not  go  last  night.  I  will,  however,  try  again  on 
Monday — after  leaving  you — with  that  elixir  in  my  veinp). 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  85 

Mrs.  Paine's  note  is  charming.  I  thank  you,  dearest, 
for  sending  it — (How  I  like  being  reminded  of  thanks,  due 
from  me  to  you,  which  I  may  somehow  come  near  the  ex- 
pression of!  I  am  silent  about  an  infinity  of  blessings 
— but  I  do  say  how  grateful  I  am  for  this  kindness!). 
Now,  there  is  the  legitimate  process;  the  proper  benefit 
received,  in  the  first  instance,  and  profited  by,  and  thence 
grows  in  proper  time  the  desire  of  being  admitted  to  see 
you — so  different  from  the  vulgar  '  Georgianas  '  who,  pos- 
sibly, hearing  of  the  privilege  extended  to  such  a  person 
as  this  we  speak  of,  would  say,  with  the  triumphant 
chuckle  of  low  cunning,  '  ah, — I  will  get  as  far,  by  one 
stroke  of  the  pen — by  one  bold  desire  "  to  be  thought  of 
as  I  think  of  her."  She  could  but  ask  and  be  refused! 
Whereas  Mrs.  Paine  was  already  in  possession  of  much 
more  dear,  dear  Ba,  than  could  be  taken  away  even  by  a 
refusal — besides,  her  reverence  would  have  made  her  un- 
derstand and  acquiesce  even  in  that.  Therefore,  I  am 
glad,  sympathisingly  glad  she  is  rewarded,  that  good, 
gentle  Mrs.  Paine !     I  will  bring  her  note  with  me. 

Because,  here  is  Mr.  Kenyon's,  and  Landor's  (which 
had  been  sent  to  Moxon's  some  days  ago,  whence  the  de- 
lay)— and  Mrs.  Jameson's.  All  kind  and  indulgent  and 
flattering  in  their  various  ways  .  .  but,  my  Ba,  my  dear, 
dear  Ba,  other  praises  disregarding,  I  but  harken  those 
of  yours — only  saying — Ah,  it  is  wrong  to  take  the  sacri- 
ficial vessel  and  say, — £  See,  it  holds  my  draught  of  wine, 
too ' ! — I  will  not  do  so,  not  parody  your  verses  again. 
And  I  like  to  be  praised  now,  in  a  sense,  much,  much  more 
than  ever — but,  darling,  oh  how  easily,  if  need  were,  I  coul'd 
know  the  world  was  abusing  at  its  loudest  outside ;  if  you 
were  inside  .  .  though  but  the  thinnest  of  gauze  canopies 
kept  us  from  the  buzzing !  This  is  only  said  on  this  sub- 
ject, struck  out  by  it,  not  of  it, — for  the  praise  is  good  true 
praise  and  from  the  worthies  of  our  time — but — you,  I  love, 
— and  there  is  the  world-wide  difference.  And  what  ought 
I  to  say  to  Mr.  Kenyon's  report  of  me?     Stand  quietly, 


86     THE  LETTERS  OP  EOBEET  BROWNING  [April  18 

assentingly?  You  will  agree  to  this  at  least,  tliat  he  cannot 
hnoiv  what  he  says — only  be  disposed  to  hope  and  believe 
it  is  so :  still,  to  speak  so  to  you — what  would  I  not  do  to 
repay  him,  if  that  could  be !  What  a  divinely  merciful 
thought  of  God  for  our  sake  .  .  that  we  cannot  hiow  each 
other — infallibly  know — as  we  know  other  things,  in  their 
qualities !  For  instance,  I  bid  you  know  my  love  for  you 
(which  would  be  knowing  me) — I  complain  that  you  do 
not,  cannot — yet, — if  you  could  .  .  my  Ba,  would  you  have 
been  ever  quite  my  Ba?  If  you  said,  calmly  as  when 
judging  of  material  objects,  '  there  is  affection,  so  much, 
and  sincerity,  and  admiration  &c,  yes,  that  I  see,  of  course, 
for  it  is  there,  plainly  ' — So  I  should  lose  the  delight  crown- 
ing the  delight,— first  of  the  fact,  as  /know  it;  and  then  of 
this ;  that  you  desired  to  know  it,  chose  to  lean  forward, 
and  take  my  poor  testimony  for  a  fact,  believing  through 
desire,  or  at  least  will  to  believe — so  that  I  do,  in  the  exer- 
cise of  common  sense,  adore  you,  more  and  more,  as  I  live 
to  see  more,  and  feel  more.  So  let  me  kiss  you,  my  pearl 
of  woman.  Do  I  '  remember '  praying  God  to  bless  me 
through  the  blessing  on  you?  Shall  I  ever  forget  to  pray 
so,  rather!  My  dear — dearest,  I  pray  now,  with  all  my 
heart;  may  He  bless  you — and  what  else  can  now  bless 
your  own  B? — 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday  Afternoon. 
[Post-mark,  April  20,  1846.] 

Just  now  I  read  again  your  last  note  for  a  particular 
purpose  of  thinking  about  the  end  of  it  .  .  where  you  say, 
as  you  have  said  so  many  times,  '  that  your  hand  was  not 
stretched  out  to  the  good — it  came  to  you  sleeping ' — etc. 
I  wanted  to  try  and  find  out  and  be  able  to  explain  to  my- 
self, and  perhaps  to  you,  why  the  wrongness  in  you  should 
be  so  exquisitely  dear  to  me,  dear  as  the  rightness,  or 
dearer,  inasmuch  as  it  is  the  topmost  grace  of  all,  seen 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  87 

latest  on  leaving  the  contemplation  of  the  others,  and  first 

on  returning  to  them because,  Ba,  that  adorable  spirit 

in  all  these  phrases,  what  I  should  adore  without  their 
embodiment  in  these  phrases  which  fall  into  my  heart  and 
stay  there,  that  strange  unconsciousness  of  how  the  love- 
account  really  stands  between  us,  ivlio  was  giver  altogether 
and  who  taker,  and,  by  consequence,  what  is  the  befitting 
virtue  for  each  of  us,  a  generous  disposition  to  forgetful- 
ness  on  the  giver's  part,  as  of  everlasting  remembrance  and 
gratitude  on  the  other — this  unconsciousness  is  wrong,  my 
heart's  darling,  strangely  wrong  by  the  contrast  with  your 
marvellous  apprehension  on  other  points,  every  other 
point  I  am  capable  of  following  you  to.  I  solemnly  assure 
you  I  cannot  imagine  any  point  of  view  wherein  I  ought  to 
appear  to  any  rational  creature  the  benefitting  party  and 
you  the  benefitted — nor  any  matter  in  which  I  can  be  sup- 
posed to  be  even  magnanimous,  (so  that  it  might  be  said, 
'  there,  is  a  sacrifice  ' — '  that,  is  to  be  borne  with '  &c) — 
none  where  such  a  supposition  is  not  degrading  to  me,  dis- 
honouring and  affronting.  I  know  you,  my  Ba,  not  be- 
cause you  are  my  Ba,  but  through  the  best  exercise  of 
whatever  power  in  me  you  too  often  praise,  I  know — that 
you  are  immeasurably  my  superior,  while  you  talk  most 
eloquently  and  affectingly  to  me,  I  know  and  could  prove 
you  are  as  much  my  Poet  as  my  Mistress ;  if  I  suspected 
it  before  I  knew  you,  personally,  how  is  it  with  me  noiv  ? 
I  feel  it  every  day,  I  tell  myself  every  day  it  is  so.  Yet 
you  do  not  feel  nor  know  it — for  you  write  thus  to  me. 
Well, — and  this  is  what  I  meant  to  say  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  letter,  I  love  your  inability  to  feel  it  in  spite  of 
right  and  justice  and  rationality.  I  would, — I  ivill,  at  a 
moment's  notice,  give  you  back  your  golden  words,  and  lie 
under  your  mind  supremacy  as  I  take  unutterable  delight 
in  doing  under  your  eye,  your  hand.  So  Shakespeare 
chose  to  '  envy  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope '  in 
the  Sonnets.  But  I  did  not  mean  to  try  and  explain  what 
is  unexplainable  after  all — (though  I  wisely  said  I  ivould 


88     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  21 

try  and  explain ! )  You  seem  to  me  altogether  .  .  (if  you 
think  my  words  sounded  like  flattery,  here  shall  come  at 
the  end— anything  but  that ! )  you  do  seem,  my  precious 
Ba,  too  entirely  mine  this  minute, — my  heart's,  my 
senses',  my  soul's  precise  ~o  xtzkdv  to  last!  Too  perfect  for 
that !  The  true  power  with  the  ignorance  of  it,  the  real 
hold  of  my  heart,  as  you  can  hold  this  letter, — yet  the  fear 
with  it  that  you  may  'vex  me'  by  a  word, — makes  me 
angry.  Well, — if  one  must  see  an  end  of  all  perfection — 
still,  to  know  one  ivas  privileged  to  see  it — Nay,  it  is  safe 
now — for  this  present,  all  my  future  would  not  pay,  what- 
ever your  own  future  turned  to ! 

Yet  if  I  had  to  say,  '  I  shall  see  her  in  a  month  or  two 
■ — perhaps— as  this  time  last  year  I  was  saying  in  a  kind  of 
contented  feeling ! 

Thank  God  I  shall  see  her  to-morrow — my  dearest, 
best,  only  Ba  cannot  change  by  to-morrow ! — What  non- 
sense !  The  words  break  down,  yet  I  will  be  trying  to  use 
them! 

God  bless  my  dearest,  ever  bless  her. 

I  shall  be  with  you  soon  after  this  reaches  you,  I  trust 
— now,  I  kiss  you,  however,  and  now,  my  Ba ! 

Letters!  since  you  bid  me  send  them, — do  you  not? — 
see  what  the  longer  says  of  the  improved  diction,  freedom 
from  difficulty  &c.  Who  is  to  praise  for  that,  my  Ba? 
Oh,  your  B.  B.  wholly  and  solely  to  be  sure ! 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[April  21,  1846.] 

I  would  not  say  to  you  yesterday,  perhaps  could  not, 
that  you  wrote  ever  so  much  foolishness  to  me  in  the  morn- 
ing, dearest,  and  that  I  knew  it  ever  so  well.  There  is  no 
use,  no  help,  in  discussing  certain  questions, — some  sorts 
of  extravagance  grow  by  talking  of, — shake  this  elixir,  and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  89 

you  have  more  and  more  bubbles  on  the  surface  of  it.  So 
I  would  not  speak — nor  will  I  write  much.  Only  I  protest, 
from  my  understanding,  from  my  heart — and  besides  I  do 
assert  the  truth — clear  of  any  '  affectation, '  this  time,  —and 
it  is  that  you  always  make  me  melancholy  by  using  such 
words.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  you  were  in  the  dark  alto- 
gether, and  held  my  hand  for  another's:  let  the  shutter  be 
opened  suddenly;  and  the  hand  .  .  is  dropped  perhaps 
.  .  .  must  I  not  think  such  thoughts,  when  you  speak  such 
words?  I  ask  you  if  it  is  not  reasonable.  No,  I  do  not  ask 
you.  We  will  not  argue  whether  eagles  creep,  or  worms 
fly.  And  see  if  it  is  distrust  on  my  part !  Love,  I  have 
learnt  to  believe  in.  I  see  the  new  light  which  Reichenbach 
shows  pouring  forth  visibly  from  these  chrj^stals  tossed 
out.  But  when  you  say  that  the  blue,  I  see,  is  red,  and 
that  the  little  chrystals  are  the  fixed  stars  of  the  Heavens, 
how  am  I  to  think  of  you  but  that  you  are  deluded,  mis- 
taken?— and  in  ivhat?  in  love  itself?  Ah, — if  you  could 
know — if  you  could  but  know  for  a  full  moment  of  convic- 
tion, how  you  depress  and  alarm  me  by  saying  such  things, 
you  never  would  say  them  afterwards,  /  know.  So  trust  to 
me,  even  as  I  trust  to  you,  and  do  not  say  them  ever  again, 
.  .  you,  who  '  never  flatter'.  Is  it  not  enough  that  you 
love  me?  Is  there  anything  greater?  And  will  you  run 
the  risk  of  ruining  that  great  wonder  by  bringing  it  to  the 
test  of  an  '  argumentum  ad  absurdum '  such  as  I  might 
draw  from  your  letter?  Have  pity  on  me,  my  own  dearest, 
and  consider  how  I  must  feel  to  see  myself  idealized  away, 
little  by  little,  like  Ossian's  spirits  into  the  mist  .  .  till 
.  .  '  Gone  is  the  daughter  of  Morven  ' !  And  what  if  it  is 
mist  or  moon-glory,  if  I  stretch  out  my  hands  to  you  in 
vain,  and  must  still  fade  away  farther?  Now  you  will  not 
any  more.  When  the  world  comes  to  judge  between  us  two, 
or  rather  over  us  both,  the  world  will  say  (even  the  pur- 
blind world,  as  I  myself  with  wide-open  eyes !)  that  I  have 
not  been  generous  with  my  gifts — no ;  you  are  in  a  position 
to  choose  .  .  and  you  might  have  chosen  better —  .  .  that 


90     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  21 

is  my  immoveable  conviction.  It  has  been  only  your  love 
for  me,— which  I  believe  in  perfectly  as  love — and  which, 
being  love,  does  not  come  by  pure  logic,  as  the  world  itself 
may  guess  .  .  it  has  been  only,  wholly  and  purely  your 
love  for  me  which  has  made  a  level  for  us  two  to  meet  and 
stand  together.  There  is  my  fact  against  your  fiction! 
Now  let  us  talk  no  more.  We  cannot  agree,  because  we 
stand  in  different  positions  .  .  .  '  I  hear  a  voice  you  can- 
not hear ' !  .  .  I  am  on  the  black  side  of  the  knight's 
shield.  Presently  you  will  hear  perhaps,  and  see.  Shall 
you  love  me  then  ?  When  the  ideal  breaks  off,  when  the 
light  is  gone,  .  .  will  you  love  me  then  for  the  love  which 
I  shall  bear  you  then  as  now,  .  .  the  only  real  thing? 

In  the  meantime  I  did  but  jest  about  the  letters — I 
know  you  care  for  mine  .  .  because  I  care  for  yours  so  in- 
finitely :  .  it  is  a  lesson  learnt  by  heart.  To-night  I  shall 
write  again ! — 

Your  own 
Ba. 
B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  April  21,  1846.  ] 

My  dearest  Ba,  my  sweetest,  only  love  must  sit,  if  she 
please,  in  the  gondola  chair  and  let  me  talk  to-day,  not 
write  to  her — for  my  head  aches, — from  pure  perversity, — 
and  a  little  from  my  morning  spent  over  a  novel  of  Balzac's 
— that  is  it,  not  any  real  illness,  I  know — however,  the 
effect  is  the  same.  Beside  I  got  tired  with  the  long  walk 
from  Carlyle's  last  night — for  I  went  and  saw  him  to 
heart's  content — and  he  talked  characteristically  and  well, 
and  constringingly,  bracingly.  He  has  been  in  the  country 
a  little, — that  is,  has  gone  down  to  see  his  wife  occasionally 
who  was  on  a  visit  at  Croydon,  whence  she  only  returned 
on  Saturday.  He  told  me  he  had  read  my  last  number; 
and  that  he  had  f  been  read  to ' — some  good  reader  had 
recited  '  The  Duchess  '  to  him.  Altogether  he  said  won- 
derfully kind  things  and  was  pleased  to  prophesy  in  the 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  91 

same  spirit ;  God  bless  him !  We  talked  for  three  or  four 
hours — he  asked  me  to  come  again  soon,  and  I  will. 

Here  are  two  letters — Chorley's,  one — and  the  other 
from  quite  another  kind  of  man,  an  old  friend  who  '  docks  ' 
ships  or  something  like  it;  a  great  lover  of  '  intelligibility 
in  writing, '  and  heretofore  a  sufferer  from  my  poetry. 

My  love,  I  lend  you  such  things  with  exactly  as  much 
vanity  as  .  .  no  comparison  will  serve !  it  is  the  French 
vulgarism — comme  .  .  n'importe  quoi !  Celui  me  pousse 
a  la  vanite  comme — n'importe  quoi ! 

Will  you  have  a  significative  '  comme '  of  another  kind? 
'  je  me  trouve  bete  ce  matin  comme  .  .  trente-six  oies ! ' — 
(I  assure  you  this  is  no  flower  culled  from  Balzac  this 
morning — but  a  little  '  souvenir  '  of  an  old  play.) 

Now,  if  I  were  to  say  to  myself  something  is  dear  as 
'  thirty-six  Bas  ' — I- should  be  scared,  as  when  looking  into 
a  mirror  cut  into  facettes  one  is  met  on  every  side  by  the 
same  face,  twenty  times  repeated.  Nothing  can  add  to  my 
conception  of  the  one  Ba — my  one,  only — ever  dear,  dear- 
est Ba — '  what  perfect  nonsense  '  says  Ba — and  nonsensical 

I  will  be all  she  pleases  so  long  as  let  live  and  die  her 

very  own. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  April  22,  1846.] 

1  Vanity  ' !  I  never  saw  in  you,  my  very  dearest,  even 
the  short  morning  shadow  of  '  vanity.'  '  Vanity  '  is  not  of 
you !  You  work  as  the  cedars  grow,  upward,  and  without 
noise,  and  without  turning  to  look  on  the  darkness  you 
cause  upon  the  ground.  It  is  only  because  you  are  best 
and  dearest  that  you  let  me  see  the  letters  .  .  .  yes,  and 
besides,  because  I  have  a  little  a  right  to  have  them  sent 
to  me, — since  they  concern  me  more  than  you, — and  are, 
after  a  fashion,  my  letters.  My  letters?  what  am  I  say- 
ing? My  letters,  my  true  letters,  are  different  indeed — 
and  one  of  them  came  to-night  to  prove  so ! 


92     THE  LETTERS  OF  EGBERT  BROWNING  [Aunt  22 

But  Mr.  Chorley's  and  the  illegible  man's  whose  name 
begins  with  a  D  (or  doesn't)  both  gave  me  pleasure.  If 
Mr.  Chorley  did  not  read  '  Luria '  at  once,  he  speaks  of 
you  in  the  right  words — and  the  naval  illegible  man,  with 
his  downright  earnest  way  of  being  impressed,  makes  a 
better  critic  than  need  be  sought  for  in  the  Athenceum 
synod.  And  what  a  triumph  (after  all !)  and  what  a  privi- 
lege, and  what  a  good  deed,  is  this  carrying  of  the  light 
down  into  the  mines  among  the  workmen,  this  bringing 
down  of  the  angels  of  the  Ideal  into  the  very  depth  of  the 
Real,  where  the  hammer  rings  on  the  rough  stone.  The 
mission  of  Art,  like  that  of  Religion,  is  to  the  unlearned 
.  .  to  the  poor  and  to  the  blind — to  make  the  rugged  paths 
straight,  and  the  wilderness  to  blossom  as  the  rose — at  least 
it  seems  so  to  me.  And  now,  pray,  why  am  I  not  to  hear 
what  Carlyle  said?  will  you  tell  me?  won't  you  tell  me? 
how  shall  I  persuade  you?  If  I  can  or  not,  I  will  say  God 
bless  him  too  .  .  since  he  spoke  the  right  word,  to  do  you 
good.  For  the  manifest  advance  in  clearness  and  direct- 
ness of  expression  .  .  I  quite  forgot  to  take  notice  of  what 
you  said  to  me— 1and  you,  who  never  flatter ! — about  being 
the  cause  of  it — I !  Now  do  observe  that  the  '  Soul's 
Tragedy,'  which  is  as  light  as  day,  I  never  touched  with 
my  finger,  except  in  one  place,  I  think  .  .  to  say  .  .  '  Just 
here  there  is  a  little  shade.'  The  fact  is,  that  your  ob- 
scurities, .  .  as  far  as  they  concern  the  medium,  .  .  you 
have  been  throwing  off  gradually  and  surely  this  long 
while — you  have  a  calmer  mastery  over  imagery  and  lan- 
guage, and  it  was  to  be  expected  that  you  should.  For 
me,  I  am  the  fly  on  the  chariot,  .  .  '  How  we  drive ! ' 
Shall  I  ever,  ever,  ever,  be  of  any  use  or  good  to  you? 
See  what  a  thought  you  have  thrown  me  into,  from  that 
height !  Shall  I  ever,  ever,  be  of  any  use,  any  good — and 
not,  rather,  the  contrary  to  these?  Love  is  something: 
and  it  is  something  to  love  you  better  than  a  better  woman 
could:  but  .  .  but  .  . 

There  is  no  use  nor  good  in  writing  so,  and  you  with  a 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  93 

headache  too!  Why,  how  could  you  get  that  headache? 
First  with  not  walking ;  then  with  walking — ! !  and  read- 
ing Balzac.  But  you  had  been  writing  notes  perhaps?  or 
Carlyle  had  talked  too  '  bracingly  ?  '  or  you  fasted  too  long, 
being  too  late  for  his  tea-kettle?  The  headache  came  at 
any  rate.  Did  it  go  ?  tell  me,  dearest  beloved !  say  how 
you  are.  And  let  me  hear  if  your  mother  continues  to  be 
better.  How  happy  that  change  must  make  you  all !  and 
shall  I  not  thank  God  that  it  makes  you  happy? 

Mr.  Kenyon  has  not  been  here,  and  I  have  nothing, 
nothing,  to  tell  you.  The  east  wind  has  kept  guard  at  the 
door,  so  that  I  should  not  go  out,  .  .  and  nothing  has 
happened.  I  seem  not  to  have  drawn  breath  scarcely, 
since  we  parted.  'Parted' — what  a  word!  As  if  we 
could ! — in  the  full  sense ! 

I  have  written  to  Miss  Bay  ley  to  ask  her  to  come  on  any 
day  except  Saturday. 

Shall  the  thirty-six  Bas  love  you  all  together  in  that 
one  Ba  who  is  your  own? 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  April  22,  1846.] 

I  never  thought  I  should  convince  you,  dearest — and  I 
was  foolish  to  write  so,  since  it  makes  you  reply  so.  At 
all  events,  I  do  not  habitually  offend  in  this  kind — forty- 
nine  days  out  of  fifty  I  hear  my  own  praises  from  your 
lips,  and  yet  keep  silence — on  the  fiftieth  I  protest  gently 
— is  that  too  much?  Then  I  will  be  quiet  altogether,  my 
Ba,  and  get  a  comfort  out  of  the  consciousness  of  obedience 
there  at  least.  But  I  should  like  some  talking-bird  to  tell 
you  the  struggle  there  is  and  what  I  could  say.  Shall  I 
idealize  you  into  mere  mist,  Ba,  and  see  the  fine,  fine,  last 
of  you?  Well,  I  cannot  even  play  with  the  fancy  of  that — 
so,  one  day,  when  so  much  is  to  be  cleared  up  between  us, 
look  for  a  word  or  two  on  this  matter  also.     Some  savage 


04     THE  LETTERS  OE  ftOBERT  BKOWNING  [Apeil  S3 

speech  about  the  '  hand  I  was  to  have  dropped ' — the  whole 
ending  with  the  Promethean — Ourws  vjSpiZetv  rob?  bfipi^ovras 
ypitDv.  Meantime  my  revenge  on  the  hand  must  be  to  kiss 
it — I  kiss  it. 

Yesterday's  letters  both  arrived  this  morning  by  the 
11^  post — was  that  right?  I  add  my  mite  of  savageness  to 
the  general  treasury  of  wrath :  every  body  is  complaining. 
Still,  so  long  as  I  do  get  my  letters, — such  letters! 

The  cold  wind  continues — you  will  have  kept  the  room 
to-day  no  doubt — what  colourless  weather;  not  the  moist 
fresh  bright  true  April  of  old  years !  I  shall  go  out  pres- 
ently— but  with  such  an  effort,  such  unwillingness !  I  am 
better  however — and  my  mother  still  continues  ivell — goes 
out  every  morning — so  there  is  hope  for  everybody.  I 
ought  to  tell  you  that  I  went  to  my  doctor  last  evening — 
(remembering  to  wliom  I  promised  I  would  do  so,  if  need 
were,  or  good  seemed  likely  to  follow) — and  he  speaks  en- 
couragingly and  I  have  engaged  to  be  obedient ;  perhaps, 
because  he  ordains  no  very  intolerable  laws.  He  says  I 
am  better  than  when  he  saw  me  last — and,  as  he  wanted 
then  to  begin  and  prescribe,  .  .  .  there  is  clearly  a  gain 
of  about  two  months  comfort ! 

Here  strikes  fatal  four-o'clock!  To-morrow  for  more 
writing ;  and  now,  for  the  never-ending  love,  and  thought 
of  my  dearest  dearest.     May  God  bless  you,  Ba. 

Your  own 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  April  23,  1846.] 

Then  seriously  you  are  not  well,  since  you  went  for  the 
medical  advice  after  all !  that  is  the  thought  which  is  up- 
permost as  the  effect  of  your  letter,  though  I  ought  to  be 
grateful  to  you  (and  am !)  for  remembering  to  keep  your 
promise,  made  two  months  ago.  But  how  can  I  help 
thinking  that  you  are  ill  .  .  help  knowing  that  you  felt 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  §5 

very  ill  before  you  came  to  consider  that  promise?  You 
did  feel  very  ill  .  .  now  did  you  not?  And  I  see  in  this 
letter  that  you  are  not  well — I  see  plainly,  plainly  !  Have 
you  been  using  the  shower-bath?  tell  me: — and  tell  me 
how  you  are — do  not  keep  back  anything.  For  the  rest, 
you  will  submit  to  the  advice,  you  say,  and  you  mean  to 
submit,  I  think,  my  own  very  dearest — remember  that  all 
my  light  comes,  not  only  through  you,  but  from  you,  let  it 
be  April  light  or  November  light.  I  say  that  for  you.  As 
for  myself,  when  I  am  anxious  about  you,  it  is  not,  I  hope, 
for  such  a  reason  as  that  my  light  comes  from  you.  Be- 
fore I  had  any  light,  .  .  before  I  knew  you  so  .  .  do  I  not 
remember  how  Mr.  Kenyon  with  that  suggestive  shake  of 
the  head  and  grave  dropping  of  the  voice,  when  he  came 
and  told  me  with  other  news,  of  your  being  ill,  .  .  made 
me  wonderfully  unhappy  and  restless  till  I  could  not  help 
writing  for  a  directer  account?  Oh,  those  strange  days  to 
look  back  upon,  .  .  which  had  no  miraculous  light,  yet 
were  strange  days,  with  their  '  darkness  which  might  be 
felt '  and  was  felt ! 

You  will  be  careful,  .  .  will  you  not?  .  .  in  these?  I 
am  not  happy  about  you,  to-night.  I  feel  as  if  you  are 
worse  perhaps  than  you  say.  And  it  does  you  so  much 
good  to  keep  talking  about  this  misgiving  and  that  misgiv- 
ing ! — the  '  trente-six  oies  '  are  nothing  at  all  to  me,  really. 

For  those  two  letters,  it  was  far  from  any  intention  of 
mine  that  you  should  have  them  both  together,  — and  the 
first-written  went  to  the  post  at  two  on  the  day  before. 
Too  bad  it  is !  I  observe  that  you  never  get  a  letter  on  the 
day  it  is  posted,  unless  the  posting  is  \erj  early,  .  .  say 
before  eight,  or,  at  latest,  before  nine.  Which  is  abomin- 
able, when  the  distance  is  considered. 

And  you  make  a  piteous  case  out  for  yourself  against 
me,  indeed,  .  .  and  it  seems  very  hard  to  have  to  endure 
so  much,  '  forty-nine  days  out  of  fifty '  .  .  .  I  did  not 
think  it  was  so  bad  with  you!  And  when  you  protest 
gently  on  the  fiftieth  day  .  .  so  gently  .    .    so  gently!! 


96      THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  23 

Well,  the  fact  is  that  jou  forget  perhaps  what  sort  of  a 
gentle  protestation  it  was,  you  wrote  to  me  on  Sunday, 
you  who  protest  so  gently,  and  never  flatter!  And  as  for 
having  your  own  '  praises  blown  in  your  eyes '  for  forty- 
nine  days  together,  I  cannot  confess  to  the  iniquity  of  it, 
.  .  you  mistake,  you  mistake,  as  well  as  forget — only  that 
I  will  not  vex  you  and  convict  you  too  much  now  that  you 
are  not  well.  So  we  shall  have  peace,  shall  we  not?  on 
each  side.  /  never  write  extravagances — ah,  but  we  will 
not  write  of  them,  even.    Any  more  letters  about  '  Luria  '  ? 

Yes — All  day  to-day  in  the  gondola  chair !  There  was 
no  leaving  this  room  for  the  cold  wind,  and  it  made  me 
feel  so  tired  without  my  taking  a  step  scarcely,  that  after 
dinner  .  .  guess  what  I  did,  and  save  me  the  shame  of  re- 
lating? after  dinner,  my  dinner  at  one  o'clock,  I  positively 
fell  fast  asleep  with  this  pen  in  my  hand,  and  went  to  see 
you  in  a  dream  I  dare  say,  though,  this  time,  I  do  not  re- 
member. Then  I  half  expected  Miss  Bayley,  and  she  did 
not  come,  and  instead  of  talking  to  her  I  wrote  letters  to 
'  all  the  peoples  '  .  .  I  hate  writing  letters,  how  I  hate  it 
now,  except  fo  you  only.  And  to-day  I  thought  only  of 
you,  let  me  write  ever  so  away  from  you.  Which  is  why 
you  saw  me  in  the  gondola  chair. 

But  you  are  not  well — the  '  refrain '  comes  round  con- 
stantly— call  it  a  burden!  May  God  bless  you,  dearest  be- 
loved !  Do  you  say  harm  of  this  April,  when  it  is  the  best 
April  I  ever  saw,  let  it  be  proved  to  want  the  vulgar  sun 
and  blue  sky  as  much  as  you  please!  Yet  you  are  not 
well !  say  how  you  are !  I  come  clear  out  of  the  mist  to 
call  myself 

Your  very  own 
Ba. 


i846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  97 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  April  23,  1846.] 

Dear,  dear  Ba,  I  was  never  very  ill,  and  now  am  very 
much  better,  quite  well,  indeed.  I  mean  to  co-operate 
with  your  wishes,  and  my  doctor's  doings,  which  are 
luckily  gentle  enough, — and  so,  how  should  I  fail  of  bring- 
ing into  subjection  this  restive,  ill-conditioned  head  of 
mine? 

This  morning  I  have  walked  to  town  and  back — leaving 
myself  barely  time  to  write — but  just  before  going  out,  I 
got  your  letter,  for  which  I  was  waiting;  and  the  joy  of 
it,  the  entire  delight,  carried  me  lightly  out  and  in  again. 
Ah,  my  own  Ba, — of  the  two  '  extravagances  which  you 
never  write  nor  speak,' — after  all,  if  I  must,  I  concede  the 
praises,  and  eagle-soaring  and,  and — because,  if  I  please, 
I  can  say,  if  you  do  persist  in  making  me,  '  why,  it  may  be 
so, — how  should  I  know,  or  Ba  not  know?  '  And  as  a  man 
may  suppose  himself  poor  and  yet  be  rightful  owner  to  a 
wonderful  estate  somewhere  (in  novels  &c) — so,  I,  the  in- 
tellectually poor  &g  &c —    But,  dearest,  if  you  say  '  My 

letters  tire  you  ' say  that  again — and  then  ivhat  unknown 

gadge  ought  to  stop  the  darling  mouth?  How  does  honey 
dew  bind  up  the  rose  from  opening?  Moreover  it  is  one 
peculiarity  of  my  mind  that  it  loses  no  pleasure, — must 
not  forego  the  former  for  the  latter  pleasure.  How  shall  I 
explain?  I  believe  that,  when  I  should  have  been  your 
husband  for  years, — years — if  I  were  separated  from  you 
for  a  day  and  a  letter  came — I  think  my  heart  would  move 
to  it  just  as  it  now  does' — because  now,  when  I  see  you, 
know  what  that  blessing  is — still  the  very  oldest  first  flutter 
of  delight  at  '  Miss  Barrett's  '  writing  it  is  all  here,  all! 

Shall  my  heart  flutter,  then,  to-morrow,  my  dear  dear 
heart's  heart?  And  it  shall  be  not  April  when  I  read  it 
your  letter — but  June  and  May — if  it  tells  me  you  are  well, 
Vol.  II.— 7 


98     THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  23 

as  I  am  well, — now,  if  I  say  that,  can  you  doubt  what  I 
consider  my  present  state?  But  be  better,  dear  Ba,  and 
make  me  better — I  should  like  to  breathe  and  move  and 
live  by  your  allowance  and  pleasure — being  your  very  very 
own  R.  B. 

I  see  this  morning  a  characteristic  piece  of  news  in  the 
paper.  President  Polk,  with  an  eye  to  business,  gets  his 
brother,  a  tall  gaunt  hungry  man,  appointed  Ambassador 
to  Naples — why  not?  So  he  arrives  a  year  ago, — finds  the 
Neapolitans  speak  Italian,  or  else  French,  or  else  German 
— that  is,  the  Diplomatic  Body  at  Naples  don't  speak  Eng- 
lish— on  which  discovery,  Polk  secundus  sees  he  may  as 
well  amuse  himself,  so  goes  to  Paris  for  half  a  year, — then 
to  Borne  where  he  is  now,  seeing  sights — who  could  tell 
the  Italians  were  not  able  to  talk  English?  Is  not  that 
American  entirely?  Carlyle  told  me  of  an  American  who 
was  commissioned  by  some  learned  body  of  his  country- 
men to  ask  two  questions  .  .  '  What  C's  opinion  was  as  to 
a  future  state?  ' — and  next  '  what  relation  Goethe  was  to 
Goethe's  mother's  husband?  ' — ■ 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  April  24,  1846.] 

Tes,  you  are  better,  I  think.  I  thank  God  for  that, 
first  of  all.  And,  do  you  know,  your  note  only  just  comes, 
and  it  is  past  ten  o'clock,  and  I  had  rung  the  bell  to  have 
the  letter-bos  investigated  .  .  and  then  came  the  knock 
and  the  letter !  Such  a  sinning  post,  it  is,  more  and  more. 
But  to  come  at  last,  is  something — I  am  contented  indeed. 
And  for  being  well,  I  am  well  too,  if  that  is  all.  The  wind 
is  a  little  hard  on  me ;  but  I  keep  in  the  room  and  think 
of  you  and  am  thought  of  by  you,  and  no  wind,  under  such 
circumstances,  can  do  much  harm  perhaps : — it  does  not  to 
me,  anywise.  So  keep  well,  and  believe  that  I  am  so : — 
'  well  as  you  are  well '  .  .  which  sounds  very  well. 


1840]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  99 

"What  nonsense  one  conies  to  write  when  one  is  glad! 
I  observe  that  in  myself  constantly.  All  my  wisdom  seems 
to  depend  on  being  pricked  with  pins  .  .  or  rather  with 
something  sharper.  And  besides  your  being  better,  I  am 
glad  through  what  you  say  here  about  your  '  peculiarity  ' ! 
Ah — how  you  have  words  in  your  coffers,  of  all  sorts,  .  . 
crowns  to  suit  all  heads  .  .  and  this,  which  I  try  on  last, 
suits  mine  better  than  the  other  glittering  ones.  Those 
exaggerations,  idealizations,  with  burning  carbuncles  in 
the  front  of  them,  which  made  me  sigh  under  the  weight, 
.  .  those  are  different —  !  But  when  you  say  now  that  you 
do  not  part  with  feelings, — that  it  is  your  peculiarity  not 
to  wear  them  out,  and  that  you  are  likely  to  care  for  the 
sight  of  my  handwriting  as  much  after  years  as  at  first, 
why  you  make  me  happy  when  you  say  such  things,  and 
(see  what  faith  I  have!)  I  believe  them,,  since  you  say  them, 
speaking  of  yourself.  They  are  not  after  the  fashion  of 
men,  or  women  either — but,  true  of  you,  they  may  be,  .  , 
and  I  take  upon  trust  that  they  are :  I  accept  such  words 
from  you  as  means  of  gladness.  The  worst  is — I  mean, 
the  worst  reasonableness  that  goes  out  to  oppose  them,  is, 
.  .  the  fear  lest,  when  your  judgments  have  been  corrected 
by  experience,  the  feelings  may  correct  themselves.  But 
it  is  ungrateful  to  talk  reason  in  the  face  of  so  much  love. 
I  take  up  the  gladness  rather,  and  thank  you  and  bless 
you  seven  times  over,  to  completion.  You  are  the  best, 
I  know,  of  all  in  the  world.  Did  I  tell  you  once  that  my 
love  was  '  something '  ?  Yet  it  is  nothing :  because  there 
is  no  woman,  let  her  heart  be  ever  so  made  of  stone  and 
steel,  who  could  help  loving  you,  .  .  I  answer  for  all 
women ! — so  this  is  no  merit  of  mine,  though  it  is  the  best 
thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life. 

Dearest  beloved,  when  I  used  to  tell  you  to  give  me  up, 
and  imagined  to  myself  how  I  should  feel  if  you  did  it, 
.  .  and  thought  it  would  not  be  much  worse  than  it  was 
before  I  knew  you  .  .  (a  little  better  indeed,  inasmuch  as 
I  had  the  memory  for  ever  .  .)  the  chief  pang  was  the  idea 


100   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  24 

of  another  woman — — !  From  that,  I  have  turned  back 
again  and  again,  recoiling  like  a  horse  set  against  too  high 
a  wall.  Therefore  if  I  talk  of  what  all  women  would  do,  I 
do  not  mean  that  they  should.  '  Thirty-six  Bas, '  we  shall 
not  have, — shall  we?  or  I  shall  be  like  Flush,  who,  before 
he  learnt  to  be  a  philosopher,  used  to  shiver  with  rage  at 
sight  of  the  Flush  in  the  looking-glass,  and  gnash  his  teeth 
impotently,  and  quite  howl.  Now, — we  shall  not,  dearest, 
have  the  thirty -six  Bas  .  .  now,  shall  we?  Besides,  one 
will  be  more  than  enough,  she  fears  to  herself,  for  your 
comfort  and  patience. 

No  more  letters  about '  Luria '  ?  Did  you  see  Moxon 
when  you  were  in  town? 

Miss  Bay  ley  has  not  been  here  yet.  To-morrow,  per- 
haps. When  she  comes,  I  shall  not  dare  name  you,  but 
she  will,  I  think  .  .  I  seem  sure  of  hearing  her  mind  about 
'Luria'  and  the  'Tragedy.'  George  thinks  the  former 
'  very  fine.'  Mr.  Kenyon  does  not  come, — and  to-morrow 
(Friday)  he  goes  .  .  from  London. 

You  will  care  for  me  always  the  same?  But  that  is  like 
promising  a  charmed  life,  or  an  impossible  immortality  to 
somebody — and  nobody  has  either,  except  Louis  Philippe. 
May  God  bless  you, — say  how  you  are  when  you  write  to- 
morrow. 

Tour  own 

Ba. 


do 


Oh — your  learned  Americans !  was  it  literal  of  Carlyle, 
you  think,  or  a  jest? 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 


[Post-mark,  April  24,  1846.] 
How  I  sympathize  with  poor  Cloten  when  he  complains 
that '  he  is  in  the  habit  of  saying  daily  many  things  fully 
as  witty  as  those  of  Posthumus,  men  praise  so — if  men 
would  hut  note  them! — I  feel  jealous  of  the  success  and 
*  praise  '  of  my  Ba, — falling  as  they  do  on  the  mere  asides 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  101 

and  inter jectional  fits  and  starts  of  the  play, — when  its 
earnest  soliloquy,  the  very  soul  and  substance  of  it  all, 
never  reaches  her  ear,  nor  calls  down  her  dear,  dear  words. 

Yet  do  I  say  that  I  feel  jealous?  Rather,  I  acquiesce 
gladly  in  the  ignorance  .  .  because  when  the  words,  the 
golden  words,  are  brought  in  to  me  by  the  inferior  agents, 
and  honestly  transferred  by  them  to  the  real  moving 
powers  .  .  they,  even,  find  the  reward  too  much,  too  much, 
till  they — till  they  resolve  (on  the  other  side  of  a  sheet) 
to  keep  silence  and  be  grateful  till  death  help  them  to 
speak. 

Well,  my  dear,  own  dearest  .  .  the  week  has  got  to  its 
weary  end,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  trust  to  be  with  you.  I 
continue  to  feel  better, — and  this  morning's  rain,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  learned,  will  be  succeeded  by  warm  weather. 
May  is  just  here,  beside. 

Let  me  say  how  a  word  of  praise  from  your  brother 
gratifies  me.  I  feel  his  kindness  in  other  respects — feel  it 
deeply — as  I  do  that  of  the  rest  of  your  family.  Because 
.  .  after  these  extravagant  flatteries  of  mine  you  find  such 
just  fault  with, — wherein  I  go  the  length  of  attributing 
to  you  the  authorship  of  the  '  Drama  of  Exile, '  and 
'  Geraldine  '  and  '  Bertha, '  and  many  more  poems  which  I 
used  to  suppose  my  Ba's, — after  that  undue  glorification, 
you  will  bear  to  be  told,  by  way  of  '  set-off ' — that  I  cannot 
help  thinking,  you,  of  all  your  family,  are  the  most  igno- 
rant of  your  own  value — very  ignorant  you  are,  my  sweet 
Ba, — but  they  cannot  be,  and  their  kindness  to  me  becomes 
centupled  '  for  reasons,  for  reasons.' 

Now  let  me  kiss  you — which  kiss,  as  I  am  to  really  kiss 
you  to-morrow,  my  sweetest,  I  shall  dare  tell  the  truth  of 
to  myself,  and  say  '  The  real  will  be  better. '  At  other 
times,  with  a  longer  perspective  of  days,  and  days  after 
them,  until  .  .  why,  then  I  make  the  best  of  pity  and  say 
'  Can  the  real  be  better — what  can  be  better  than  the  best '  ? 
Still — remember  my '  peculiarity  ' — with  the  greater  I  keep 
the  less,  you  let  me  say  and  praise  me  for  saying — so,  with 


102   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  24 

all  the  dear  hope  of  to-morrow,  — now,  my  Ba — and  now,  I 
kiss  you.     May  God  bless  you,  best  and  dearest. 

No  letters  that  are  letters — here  is  one  however  from 
Arnould '  just  arrived — an  Oxford  Prize  Poet,  and  an  admir- 
able dear  good  fellow,  for  all  his  praise — which  is  better. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  April  27,  1846.  ] 

Ever  dearest  you  might  have  stayed  ten  minutes  more. 
George  did  not  come  in  till  half  past  six  after  all — but 
there  is  the  consciousness  of  being  wise  in  one's  genera- 
tion, which  consoles  so  many  for  their  eternity  as  children 
of  light,  .  .  yet  doesn't  console  me  for  my  ten  minutes,  .  . 
so  it  is  as  well  to  say  no  more  on  this  head ! 

I  have  glanced  over  the  paper  in  the  Athenaeum  and  am 
of  an  increased  certainty  that  Mr.  Chorley  is  the  writer. 
It  is  Ms  way  from  beginning  to  end — and  that  is  the  way, 
observe,  in  which  little  critics  get  to  tread  on  the  heels  of 
great  writers  who  are  too  great  to  kick  backwards.  Think 
of  bringing  George  Sand  to  the  level  of  the  same  sentence 
with  such  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Ellis !  And  then,  the  infinite 
trash  about  the  three  eras  in  the  Frenchwoman's  career, 
.  .  which  never  would  have  been  dragged  into  application 
there,  if  the  critic  had  heard  of  her  last  two  volumes  .  . 
published  since  the  '  Meunier  d'Angibault,  '  '  Teverino ' 
and  '  Isidora.'  One  may  be  angry  and  sin  not,  over  such 
inapplicable  commonplace.  The  motive  of  it,  the  low  ex- 
pediency, is  worse  to  me  than  the  offence.  Why  mention 
her  at  all  .  .  why  name  in  any  fashion  any  of  these  French 
writers,  for  the  reception  of  whom  the  English  mind  is 
certainly  not  prepared,  unless  they  are  to  be  named 
worthily,  recognised  righteously?  It  is  just  the  principle 
of  the  advice  about  the  De  Kocks ;  whom  people  are  to  go 
and  see  and  deny  their  acquaintance  afterwards.  Why  not 
say  boldly  '  These  writers  have  high  faculty,  and  imagina- 

1  [Afterwards  Sir  Joseph  Arnould.  ] 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  103 

tion  such  as  none  of  our  romance-writers  can  pretend  to — 
but  they  have  besides  a  devil — and  we  do  not  recommend 
them  as  fit  reading  for  English  families ! '  Now  wouldn't 
it  answer  every  purpose?  Or  silence  would! — silence,  at 
least.  But  this  digging  and  nagging  at  great  reputations, 
.  .  it  is  to  me  quite  insufferable :  and  not  compensated  for 
by  the  motive,  which  is  a  truckling  to  conventions  rather 
than  to  morals.  As  if  earnestness  of  aim  was  not,  from 
the  beginning,  from  '  Eose  et  Blanche  '  and  '  Indiana, '  a 
characteristic  of  George  Sand !     Keally  it  is  pitiful. 

The  '  Mysteries  of  the  Heaths, '  I  suppose  to  be  a  trans- 
lation of  '  Sept  jours  au  chateau, '  a  very  clever  story  from 
the  monstrous  Hydra-headed  imagination  of  Frederic 
Soulie.  Dumas  is  inferior  to  them  all  of  course,  yet  a 
right  good  storyteller  when  he  is  in  the  mind  for  storytell- 
ing;— telling,  telling,  telling,  and  never  having  done.  You 
know  I  like  listening  to  stories — I  agree  with  the  great 
Sultan  and  would  forego  ever  so  much  cutting  off  of  heads 
for  the  sake  of  a  story — it  is  a  taste  quite  apart  from  a 
taste  for  literature:  a  storyteller,  I  like,  apart  from  the 
sweet  voice.  Now  that  book  of  Dumas 's  on  the  League 
wars,  which  distressed  me  so  the  other  day,  by  having  the 
cruelty  .  .  the  '  villainie '  .  .  of  hanging  its  hero  in  the 
fourth  volume  .  .  (regularly  hanging  him  on  a  pair  of 
gallows — wasn't  it  too  bad?)  that  book  is  amusing  enough, 
more  than  amusing  enough,  to  take  with  one's  coffee  .  . 
which  is  my  fashion,  .  .  because  you  are  not  here  and  I 
have  nobody  to  talk  to  me.  The  hero  who  was  hanged, 
deserved  it  a  little,  I  think,  though  the  author  meant  it  for 
a  pure  misfortune  and  though  no  good  romance-reader  in 
the  world,  such  as  I  am,  could  bear  to  part  with  the  hero 
of  four  volumes  in  that  manner,  without  pain ;  but  the  hero 
did  deserve  it  a  little  when  one  came  to  consider.  In  the 
first  place,  he  was  a  traitor  once  or  twice  in  war  and  poli- 
tics, and  was  quite  ready  to  be  so  a  third  or  fourth  time, 
.  .  only  .  .  as  he  said  to  the  lady  he  loved  .  .  '  je  perdrais 
votre  estime. '     '  Is  that  your  only  objection '  she  enquired. 


104  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  27 

'  TJie  only  one  '  lie  answered !  (How  frightfully  true,  that 
those  brilliant  French  writers  have  no  moral  sense  at  all ! 
do  not,  for  the  most  part,  know  right  from  wrong !  here, 
an  instance !)  Then,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the 
four  volumes,  he  loves  two  women  together  .  .  a  '  pheno- 
mene '  by  no  means  uncommon,  says  the  historian  mus- 
ingly, .  .  and,  except  for  the  hanging,  there  might  have 
been  a  difficulty  perhaps  in  the  final  arrangement.  Yet 
oh  .  .  to  see  one's  hero,  the  hero  of  four  volumes,  and 
not  a  bad  hero  either  in  some  respects,  hung  up  before 
one's  eyes  !  .  .  it  wrongs  the  natural  affections  to  think  of 
it !  it  made  me  unhappy  for  a  full  hour !  There  should  be 
a  society  for  the  prevention  of  cruelty  to  romance-readers, 
against  the  recurrence  of  such  things ! 

Pure  nonsense  I  write  to  you,  it  seems  to  me. 

What  beautiful  flowers  you  brought  me! — and  the 
sweetbrier  is  unfolding  its  leaves  to-day,  as  if  you  did 
them,  so,  no  wrong.  And  I  have  been  considering;  and 
there  are  not,  if  you  please,  five  but  four  days,  between 
Saturday  and  Thursday.  In  the  meanwhile  say  how  you 
are,  dearest  dearest !  My  thoughts  are  with  you  constantly 
.  .  indeed.  I  could  almost  say,  too  much,  .  .  because 
sometimes  they  grow  weak  and  tired  .  .  not  of  you,  who 
are  best  and  beloved,  but  of  themselves,  having  been  so 
long  used  to  be  sad.  May  God  bless  you,  .  .  bless  you ! 
His  best  blessing  for  me  (after  that!)  were  to  make  me 
worthy  of  you — but  it  would  take  too  many  miracles. 

Your 

Ba. 

Remember  the  letters,  if  they  come. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  April  27,  1846.] 

See  what  a  brain  I  have, — which  means,  you  have! 
The  book  I  ought  to  put  in  my  pocket, — and  fancy  I  leave 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  105 

on  the  table, — is  picked  up  in  our  lane  and  presented  to 
me  on  my  return;  so  my  reason,  which  told  you  I  had  for- 
gotten it,  the  book,  was  wrong,  and  my  instinct  which  told 
me,  all  the  time,  that  I  could  not  forget  even  so  poor  a 
matter  if  it  tended  to  you, — that  was  right,  as  usual? 
(Don't  think  that  I  forgot  the  said  book  on  the  former 
occasions  .  .  I  wanted  to  look  through  it  first,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  correct  any  possible  mistakings,  in  case  you  should 
ask,  or  should  not  ask,  my  siren !  I  read  the  book  during 
the  voyage.) 

Will  you  tell  me  what  number  of  the  League  contains  the 
notice  of  you?  I  can  get  it  directly.  I  did  not  ask  you 
yesterday,  being  just  as  much  master  of  myself  as  I  com- 
monly am  when  with  you — but  after-wisdom  comes  duly 
for  a  consolation,  and  mine  was  apparent  in  a  remark  I 
made  last  night — ■'  Here  is  truly  an  illusion  broken  '  I  said 
— '  for  not  very  long  ago  I  used  to  feel  impatient  at  listen- 
ing to  other  people's  commendations  of  her,  and  as  if  they 
were  usurping  my  especial  office, — they  could  not  see  what 
I  see,  not  utter  what  I  could  utter :  and  now,  at  the  begin- 
ning of  my  utterance,  the  hand  closes  my  mouth,  while  its 
dear  fellow  shuts  my  eyes, — I  may  not  see  what  everybody 
sees,  nor  say  what  the  whole  world  says, — I,  that  was  to 
excel  them  all  in  either  function !  So  now  I  will  change 
my  policy  and  bid  them  praise,  praise,  praise,  praise, 
since  I  may  not.  Will  you  let  me  hear  them,  my  Ba? 
You  know  Chesterfield  forbids  his  son  to  play  on  the  in- 
strument himself — '  for  you  can  pay  musicians  '  he  says — 
'  and  hear  them  play.'  Where  may  I  hear  this  discourse!1 
of  most  excellent  music? 

In  your  last  letter  you  spoke  of  '  other  women, '  and 
said  they  might  '  love  '  me — just  see !  They  might  love  me 
because  of  something  in  me,  lovingness  in  me,  which  they 
never  could  have  evoked  .  .  so  the  effect  produces  the 
cause,  my  dear  '  inverter ' !  If  there  had  been  a  vague 
aimless  feeling  in  me,  turning  hither  and  thither  for  some 
object  to  attach  itself  to  and  spend  itself  on,  and  you  had 


106  THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNING  [April  27 

chanced  to  be  that  object,  I  should  understand  you  were 
very  little  flattered  and  how  a  poplar  does  as  well  for  a 
vine-prop  as  a  palm  tree — but  whatever  love  of  mine  clings 
to  ybu  was  created  by  you,  dearest, — they  were  not  in 
me,  I  believed — those  feelings, — till  you  came.  So  that, 
mournful  and  degrading  as  it  sounds,  still  it  would,  I 
think,  be  more  rational  to  confess  the  possibility  of  their 
living  on,  though  you  withdrew, — finding  some  other — oh 
no,  it  is, — that  is  as  great  an  impossibility  as  the  other, — 
they  came  from  you,  they  go  to  you,  what  is  the  whole 
world  to  them ! 

May  God  bless  you,  repay  you — He  can — 

Well  Ba,  do  you  see  the  Examiner?  That  is  very 
kind,  very  generous  of  Forster.  There  are  real  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  this  prompt,  efficient,  serviceable  notice — for 
he  has  a  tribe  of  friends,  dramatists,  actors  '  conflicting 
interests'  &c.  &c.  to  keep  the  peace  among, — and  he  quite 
understands  his  trade — how  compensation  is  to  be  made, 
and  an  equilibrium  kept  in  the  praises  so  as  to  offend 
nobody, — yet  see  how  he  writes,  and  with  a  heap  of  other 
business  on  his  shoulders !  I  thank  him  very  sincerely,  I 
am  sure. 

Tell  me  how  you  are,  beloved — all-beloved !  I  am  quite 
well  to-day, — have  been  out. 

Do  you  remember  our  friend  Bennett  of  Blackheath? 
(Don't  ejaculate  '  le  Benet ' !)  He  sent  me  letters  lately — 
and  I  returned  a  copy  of  '  Luria '  to  save  compliments  and 
words — here  is  his  answer  .  .  (I  will  at  once  confess  I 
could  not  read  it,  but  Ba  bids  me  send,  and  what  am  I  but 
Ba's  own,  very  very  own?) 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  April  27,  1846.] 

Oh  yes;  that  paper  ia  by  Chorley,  no  doubt — I  read 
it,  and  quite  wonder  at  him.  I  suppose  he  follows  some- 
bodv's  'lead' — writes  as  he  is  directed — because  I  well 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  107 

remember  what  he  said  on  lending  me  '  Le  Compagnon.' 
There,  there  is  that  other  silly  expenditure  of  pen  and  ink 
on  the  English  poets,  or  whatever  they  are.  And  in  such 
work  may  a  man  spend  his  youth  and  not  a  few  available 
energies — sad  work  altogether ! 

My  love,  /have  done  a  fair  day's  work  this  Monday, — 
whoever  may  be  idle — I  thought  I  would  call  on  Forster 
this  morning — he  was  out,  and  I  crossed  over  to  Moxon's, 
not  seeing  him,  neither,  and  thence  walked  home — so  that 
to  tell  you  I  am  well  is  superfluous  enough,  is  it  not?  But 
while  the  sun  shone  brightest,  (and  it  shines  now)  I  said 
'  The  cold  wind  is  felt  through  it  all, — she  keeps  the  room! ' 
The  wind  is  unremitting, — savage.  Do  you  bear  it,  dear- 
est, or  suffer,  as  I  fear?  (Speaking  of  Forster  .  .  you  see 
the  Examiner,  I  believe?  Or  I  will  send  it  directly  of 
course) .  I  entirely  agree  with  you  in  your  estimate  of  the 
comparative  value  of  French  and  English  Romance- writers. 
I  bade  the  completest  adieu  to  the  latter  on  my  first  intro- 
duction to  Balzac,  whom  I  greatly  admire  for  his  faculty, 
whatever  he  may  choose  to  do  with  it.  Do  you  know  a 
little  sketch  'La  Messe  de  l'Athee,'— most  affecting  to 
me.  And  for  you,  with  your  love  of  a  '  story, '  what  an 
unceasing  delight  must  be  that  very  ingenious  way  of  his, 
by  which  he  connects  the  new  novel  with  its  predecessors 
— keeps  telling  you  more  and  more  news  yet  of  the  people 
you  have  got  interested  in,  but  seemed  to  have  done  with. 
Eastignac,  Mme.  d'Espard,  Desplein  etc. — they  keep  alive, 
moving — is  it  not  ingenious?  Frederic  Soulie  I  know  a 
little  of  (I  let  this  reading  drop  some  ten  years  ago)  and 
only  George  Sand's  early  works:  by  the  way,  the  worst 
thing  of  all  in  that  blessed  article  we  have  been  referring 
to,  is  the  spiteful  and  quite  uncalled  for  introduction  of 
the  names  of  A.  de  Musset  and  De  Lamennais — what  have 
the  English  families  to  do  with  that?  Did  you  notice  a 
stanza  quoted  from  some  lachrymose  rhymester  to  be 
laughed  at  (in  the  Article  on  Poetry) — in  which  the  writer 
complains  of  the  illtreatment  of  false  friends,  for  '  says  he, 


108  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  27 

'I  have  felt  their  bangs.''  The  notion  of  one's  friend 
'  banging '  one  is  exhilarating  when  one  reflects  that  he 
might  get  a  little  pin,  and  prick,  prick  after  this  fashion. 
No,  it  is  probably  a  manner  of  writing, — meant  for  the 
week's  life  and  the  dozen  readers.  Here  is  a  note  from 
his  sister,  by  the  way. 

Now,  dearest-dearest,  good  bye  till  to-morrow.  I  think 
of  you  all  day,  and,  if  I  dream,  dream  of  you — and  the  end 
of  the  thinking  and  of  the  dreaming  is  still  new  love,  new 
love  of  you,  my  sweetest,  only  beloved !  so  I  kiss  you  and 
bless  you  from  my  heart  of  heart. 

Ever  your  R. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  April  28,  1846.] 

Very  good  Examiner  ! — I  am  pleased  with  it  and  with 
Mr.  Forster  for  the  nonce,  though  he  talks  a  little  non- 
sense here  and  there,  in  order  to  be  a  true  critic,  and 
though  he  doesn't  talk  at  all,  scarcely,  of  the  '  Soul's 
Tragedy '  .  .  .  how  is  one  to  bear  it?  That  '  Tragedy ' 
has  wonderful  things  in  it — thoughts,  suggestions,  .  .  and 
more  and  more  I  feel,  that  you  never  did  better  dialogue 
than  in  the  first  part.  Every  pulse  of  it  is  alive  and  in- 
dividual —dramatic  dialogue  of  the  best.  Nobody  in  the 
world  could  write  such  dialogue — now,  you  know,  you 
must  be  patient  and  '  meke  as  maid, '  being  in  the  course 
of  fhe  forty-nine  days  of  enduring  praises.  Praises,  in- 
stead of  '  bangs  ' ! ! — consider  that  it  might  be  worse ! — dicit 
ipsissima  Ba. 

Think  of  my  not  hearing  a  word  about  the  article  in 
the  Examiner,  until  I  had  your  note  this  morning.  And 
the  Examiner  was  in  the  house  since  Saturday  night,  and 
nobody  to  tell  me !  I  was  in  high  vexation,  reproaching 
them  all,  to-day — till  Stormie  had  the  impertinence  to  turn 
round  and  tell  me  that  only  Papa  had  read  the  paper,  and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  109 

that '  lie  had  of  course  put  it  away  to  keep  me  from  the 
impropriety  of  thinking  too  much  about  .  .  about '  .  .  yes, 
really  Stormie  was  so  impertinent.  For  the  rest,  when 
Papa  came  upstairs  at  one  o'clock,  he  had  it  in  his  hand. 

At  two,  Miss  Bay  ley  came,  and  sate  here  two  hours, 
and  thought  me  looking  so  well,  with  such  improved  looks 
from  last  autumn,  that  I  don't  mean  to  groan  at  all  to  you 
to-day  about  the  wind — it  is  a  savage  wind,  as  you  say, 
and  I  wish  it  were  gone,  and  I  am  afraid  of  stirring  from 
the  room  while  it  lasts,  but  there's  an  end  .  .  and  not  of 
me,  says  Miss  Bay  ley.  She  doffed  her  bonnet  and  talked 
and  talked,  and  was  agreeable  and  affectionate,  and  means 
to  come  constantly  to  see  me  .  .  .  ('  only  not  on  Thurs- 
day,' I  desired:)  and  do  you  know,  you  need  not  think 
any  more  of  my  going  with  you  to  Italy,  for  she  has  made 
up  her  mind  to  take  me  herself  .  .  there  is  no  escape  for 
me  that  I  can  see — it's  fixed  .  .  certain!  with  a  thousand 
generous  benignities  she  stifled  my  '  no's '  .  .  and  all  I 
had  breath  to  say  at  last,  was,  that  '  there  was  time  enough 
for  plans  of  that  kind.'  Seriously,  I  was  quite  embar- 
rassed to  know  how  to  adjourn  the  debate.  And  she  is 
capable  of  '  arranging  everything ' — of  persisting,  of  in- 
sisting— who  knows  what?  And  so,  .  .  when  I  am  '  with- 
drawn '  .  .  carried  away  .  .  then,  shall  all  my  '  feelings, ' 
which  are  in  you,  be  given  to  somebody  else?  is  that  the 
way —  ? 

Now  I  shall  not  make  jests  upon  that .  .  I  shall  not : 
first,  I  shall  not,  because  it  is  ungrateful — and  next  and 
principally,  because  my  heart  stands  still  only  to  think  of 
it  .  .  !  Why  did  you  say  that  to  me?  I  could  be  as  jeal- 
ous (did  I  not  tell  you  once?)  as  any  one  of  your  melo- 
dramatic gitana  heroines,  who  carries  a  poignard  between 
the  white-satin  sash  and  the  spangles?  I  perfectly  under- 
stand, at  this  distance,  what  'Jealousy  is,  would  be,  ought 
to  be,  must  be — though  I  never  guessed  at  all  what  love 
was,  at  that  distance,  and  startled  I  am  often  and  con- 
founded, to  see  the  impotency  of  my  imagination. 


110   THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNLNG  [April  28 

Forgive  the  blottings  out— I  have  not  blotted  out  lately 
.  .  have  I  now?  and  it  is  pardonable  once  in  a  hundred 
years  or  days. 

The  rest  for  to-morrow.  Your  correspondent  of  the 
first  letter  you  sent  me  really  does  write  like  a  Bennet, 
though  he  praises  you.  I  could  not  help  laughing  very 
gently,  thor.gh  he  praises  you.  Good-night  my  only  be- 
loved .  .  dearest !  As  my  Bennet  says  (Georgiana)  when 
she  catches  vehemently  at  the  laurel  .  .  '  I  will  not  be 
forgot'  .  .  . 

"I  must  die  .  .  but  I  will  not  be  forgot'  (in  large 
capitals!)  But  what  she  applies  to  the  Delphic  groves, 
turns  for  me  to  something  more  ambitious.  '  I  will  not  be 
forgot'  .  .  will  I?  shall  I?  not  till  Thursday  at  least  .  . 
being  ever  and  ever 

Your  own 
Ba. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  April  28,  1846.] 

Now  bless  you,  my  dearest,  best  Ba,  for  this  letter  that 
comes  at  the  eleventh  hour, — which  means,  at  3  o'clock. 
Was  not  I  frightened!  I  made  sure  you  would  write. 
Why,  our  Post  emulates  the  Italian  glory  .  .  nay,  that  is 
too  savage  a  saying — for  in  Venice  or  Rome  I  should  have 
to  go  for  this  to  the  office,  and  only  get  it  at  last  through 
the  forbearing  honesty  of  every  other  applicant  for  letters 
during  the  day,  or  week — since  to  every  man  and  woman 
who  thrusts  his  or  her  head  in  at  the  window  at  Venice, 
the  clerk  hands  coolly  over  the  whole  odd  hundred,  and 
turns  to  his  rest  again  till  as  many  are  taken  as  may  be 
thought  necessary.  But,  Ba,  dear  dearest  Ba,  do  you 
really  mean  to  tell  me  I  said  '  that '.  .  of  '  transferring  feel- 
ings 'etc?  I  hope  I  did, — though  I  cannot  imagine  how  I 
ever  could — say  so — for  so  the  greater  fault  will  be  Ba's — 
who  drives  me  from  one  Scylla  (see  my  critic's  account) 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  111 

into  a  worse  Chary  bdis  through  pure  fear  and  aversion, — 
and  then  cries  '  see  where  you  are  now ! '  I  was  retreating 
as  far  as  possible  from  that  imaginary  '  woman  who  called 
out  those  feelings,' — might  have  called  them  out, — just  as 
this  April  sun  of  ours  makes  date-palms  grow  and  bear — 
and  because  I  said,  of  the  two  hypotheses,  the  one  which 
taught  you  the  palms  might  be  transplanted  and  live  on 
here, — that  was  the  more  rational  .  .  you  turn  and  ask 
'  So  your  garden  will  rear  palms,'  Now,  I  tell  Ba, — no,  I 
will  kiss  Ba  and  so  tell  her. 

How  happy  Miss  Bayley's  testimony  makes  me!  One 
never  can  be  too  sure  of  such  a  happiness.  She  has  no 
motive  for  thus  confirming  it.  You  '  look  so  well ' — and 
she  not  merely  sees  it,  but  acts  upon  it, — is  for  deriving 
a  practical  benefit  from  it,  and  forthwith.  Then,  Miss 
Bayley,  let  me  try  and  '  transfer '  .  .  ah,  the  palm  is  too 
firmly  rooted  in  my  very  heart, — I  can  but  sprinkle  you 
over  with  yellow  dust ! 

Oh,  Ba;  not  to  tell  me  of  the  League;  the  number! — 
will  you  please  tell  me?  One  letter  more  I  get,  do  I  not? 
Then  comes  Thursday- — my  Thursday. 

What  you  style  '  impertinence  '  in  your  Brother,  is  very 
kind  and  good  natured  to  my  thinking.  Well,  now — see 
the  way  a  newspaper  criticism  affects  one,  nearly  the  only 
way  !  If  this  had  been  an  attack — how  it  would  affect  you 
and  me  matters  nothing— it  might  affect  others  disagree- 
ably— and  through  them,  us.  So  I  feel  very  much  obliged 
to  Forster  in  this  instance. 

I  kiss  you  with  perfect  love,  my  sweetest  best  Ba. 
May  God  bless  you. 

E 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  April  29,  1846.] 

Dearest,  you  are  not  to  blame  the  post,  nor  even  me. 
The  reason  you  did  not  get  the  letter  was  simply  that 


112   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [April  29 

Henrietta  slept  over  the  hour,  and  let  it  lie  on  the  table  till 
past  eight.  Still,  you  should  have  had  it  before  three  per- 
haps.    Only  the  wrong  was  less  a  wrong  than  you  fancied. 

For  my  wrongs,  dearest  beloved,  they  are  mine  I  con- 
fess, and  not  yours  .  .  ah,  you  are  '  evilly  persecuted,  and 
entreated '  of  me,  I  must  allow.  Yet  as,  with  all  my  ca- 
lumnious imputations,  I  think  softly  to  myself  seven  times 
seven  times  a  day  that  no  living  man  is  worthy  to  stand 
in  your  footsteps,  .  .  why  you  must  try  to  forgive  and 
(not)  forget  me.  Do  I  teaze  you  past  enduring,  some- 
times? Yes,  yes.  And  wasn't  it  my  fault  about  the  '  im- 
aginary woman ; '  that  heiress,  in  an  hypothesis,  of  the 
'  love  '  I  '  made  '  ?  Yes,  yes,  yes — it  was,  of  course.  Unless 
indeed  she  came  out  of  that  famous  mist,  which  you  fined 
me  away  into,  .  .  the  day  you  slew  and  idealized  me,  re- 
member!—and,  now  I  begin  to  consider,  I  think  she  did! 
So  we  will  share  the  fault  between  us,  you  and  I.  The 
odium  of  it,  I  was  going  to  say — but  odium  is  by  no  means 
the  right  word,  perhaps. 

The  truth  of  all  is,  that  you  are  too  much  in  the  excess 
of  goodness,  .  .  that  you  spoil  me !  There  it  is !  Did  I 
not  tell  you,  warn  you,  that  I  never  was  used  to  the  purple 
and  fine  linen  of  such  an  infinite  tenderness?  If  you  give 
me  back  my  sackcloth,  I  shall  know  my  right  hand  from 
my  left  again,  perhaps,  .  .  guess  where  I  stand  .  .  what 
I  am  .  .  recover  my  common  sense.  Will  you?  no — do 
not. 

And  for  the  League  newspaper,  you  mistook  me,  and  I 
forgot  to  say  so  in  my  letter  yesterday.  I  told  you  only 
that  the  League  paper  had  mentioned  me — not  noticed  me. 
It  was  just  .  .  I  just  shall  tell  you,  that  you  may  not 
spend  another  thought  on  such  a  deep  subject  .  .  it  was  a 
mere  quotation  from  the  '  cornships  in  the  offing, '  with  a 
prefatory  as  that  exquisite  poet  Idiss  B  .  .  says!  Now  you 
are  done  with  the  winter  of  your  discontent?  You  are  with 
the  snowdrops  at  any  rate.  But  last  year  there  was  a  reg- 
ular criticism  on  my  poems  in  that  League  paper,  and  I 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABKETT  113 

had  every  reason  to  thank  the  critic.  I  have  heard  too 
that  Cobden  is  a  very  gracious  reader  of  mine  .  .  and  that 
his  Leeds  (liege)  subjects  generally  do  me  the  honours 
of  popularity,  more  than  any  other  people  in  England. 
There's  glory  for  you,  talking  of  palm-trees. 

Ah — talking  of  palm-trees,  you  do  not  know  what  a 
curious  coincidence  your  thought  is  with  a  thought  of 
mine,  which  I  shall  not  tell  you  now  .  .  but  some  day  per- 
haps.    There's  a  mystery !  talking  of  Venice ! 

For  Balzac,  i  have  had  my  full  or  overfull  pleasure 
from  that  habit  of  his  you  speak  of,  .  .  and  which  seems 
to  prove  his  own  good  faith  in  the  life  and  reality  of  his 
creations,  in  such  a  striking  manner.  He  is  a  writer  of 
most  wonderful  faculty  — with  an  overflow  of  life  every- 
where— with  the  visii  no  and  the  utterance  of  a  great  seer. 
His  French  is  another  language— he  throws  new  metals 
into  it  .  .  malleable  metals,  which  fuse  with  the  heat  of 
his  genius.  There  is  no  writer  in  France,  to  my  mind,  at 
all  comparable  to  Balzac — none — but  where  is  the  reader 
in  England  to  make  the  admission? — none,  again  .  .  is 
almost  to  be  said. 

But,  dearest,  you  do  not  say  how  you  are;  and  that 
silence  is  not  lawful,  and  is  too  significant.  For  me,  when 
the  wind  changed  for  a  few  hours  to-day,  I  went  down  stairs 
with  Flush,  and  had  my  walk  in  the  drawing-room.  Mrs. 
Jameson  has  written  to  proclaim  her  coming  to-morrow  at 
four,— so  I  shall  hear  of  '  Luria,'  I  think.  Bemember  to 
bring  my  verses,  if  you  please,  on  your  Thursday.  And 
if  dreaming  of  me  should  be  good  for  making  you  love  me, 
let  me  be  dreamt  of  .  .  go  on  to  dream  of  me:  and  love 
me,  my  beloved,  ever  so  much,  without  grudging, — because 
the  love  returns  to  you,  all  of  it,  .  .  as  the  wave  to  the  sea; 
and  with  an  addition  of  sundry  grains  of  soiling  sand,  to 
make  you  properly  grateful.  Take  care  of  yourself — may 
God  take  care  of  you  for  your  own 

Ba. 
Vol.  II.— S 


114  THE  LETTEBS  OF  EOBERT  BROWNING  [April  29 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  April  29,  1846.] 

Oh,  post,  post,  how  I  am  plagued  by  what  uses  to  de- 
light me!  No  letter, — and  I  cannot  but  think  you  have 
written  one,  my  Ba !  It  will  come  perhaps  at  3  o'clock. 
Shame  and  again,  shame ! 

Meantime  I  will  tell  you  what  a  dear,  merciful  Ba  you 
are,  in  only  threatening  me  with  daggers, — when  you  play 
at  threatening, — instead  of  declaring  you  will  frown  at  me. 
.  .  Oh,  but  here  '  Fear  recoils,  he  knows  well  why,  even  at 
the  sound  himself  has  made — ' 

The  best  of  it  is,  that  this  was  the  second  fright,  and  by 
no  means  the  most  formidable.  When  I  read  that  para- 
graph beginning  '  you  need  not  think  any  more  of  going 
with  me  to  Italy  ' — shall  I  only  say  I  ivas  alarmed?  Without 
a  particle  of  affectation,  I  tell  Ba,  I  am,  cannot  help  being, 
alarmed  even  now — we  have  been  discussing  possibilities — 
and  it  is  rather  more  possible  than  probable  that  Miss 
Bayley  may  '  carry  off '  my  Ba,  and  her  Flush,  and,  say, 
an  odd  volume  of  the  Cyclic  Poets,  all  in  her  pocket  .  .  she 
being,  if  I  remember,  of  the  race  of  the  Anakim — than 
that  I  shall  ever  find  in  the  wide  world  a  flesh  and  blood 
woman  able  to  bear  the  weight  of  the  '  feelings, '  I  rest  now 
upon  the  B  and  the  A  which  spell  Ba's  name, — only  her 
name! 

Forster  sent  a  note  last  evening  urging  me  to  go  and 
dine  with  him  and  Leigh  Hunt  to-day, — there  was  no  re- 
fusing. There  is  sunshine — you  may  have  been  downstairs 
—but  the  wind  continues. 

I  shall  know  to-morrow — but  surely  a  letter  is  to  come 
presently — let  me  wait  a  little. 

Nothing!    Pray  write  if  anything  have  happened,  my 
own  Ba ! 

No  time—Ever  your 

E. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  115 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  1,  1846.] 

1  am  delighted  with  the  verses  and  quite  surprised 
by  Mr.  Arnould's,  having  expected  to  find  nothing  but 
love  and  law  in  them,  and  really  there  is  a  great  deal  be- 
sides. Hard  to  believe,  it  was,  that  a  university  prize  poet 
(who  was  not  Tennyson)  could  write  such  good  verses :  but 
he  wrote  them  of  you,  and  that  was  enough  inspiration  for 
him,  I  suppose,  as  it  would  be  for  others,  my  own  dearest. 
How  I  delight  in  hearing  you  praised ! — it  is  such  a  delight- 
ful assent  to  the  word  which  is  in  me,  in  the  deepest  of 
me.  You  know  that  mysterious  pleasure  we  have,  in  lis- 
tening to  echoes!— we  hear  nothing  new,  nothing  we  have 
not  said  ourselves — yet  we  stand  on  the  side  of  the  hill  and 
listen  .  .  listen  .  .  as  if  to  the  oracles  of  Delphi.  The 
very  pleasure  of  it  all  is  in  the  repetition  .  .  the  reverber- 
ation. 

When  you  had  gone  yesterday  and  I  had  taken  my 
coffee,  holding  my  book  .  .  '  La  Gorgone '  a  sea-romance 
by  Landelle,  (those  little  duodecimo  books  are  the  only 
possible  books  to  hold  in  one's  hand  at  coffee-times  .  . 
and  the  people  at  Eolandi's  library  sent  me  this,  which  is 
not  worth  much,  I  think,  but  quite  new  and  very  marine) 
.  .  holding  my  book  at  one  page,  as  if  fixed  .  .  transfixed, 
.  .  by  a  sudden  eternity,  .  .  .  well,  after  all  that  was  done 
with,  coffee  and  all,  .  .  in  came  George,  and  told  me  that 
the  day  before  he  had  seen  Tennyson  at  Mr.  Vennables' 
house,  or  chambers  rather.  Mr.  Vennables  was  unwell, 
and  George  went  to  see  him,  and  while  he  was  there,  came 
the  poet.  He  had  left  London  for  a  few  days,  he  said, 
and  meant  to  stay  here  for  a  time  .  .  '  hating  it  perfectly  ' 
like  your  Donne  .  .  '  seeming  to  detest  London, '  said 
George  .  .  'abusing  everything  in  unmeasured  words.' 
Then  he  had  been  dining  at  Dickens's,  and  meeting  various 


116   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [May  1 

celebrities,  and  Dickens  had  asked  kirn  to  go  with  him 
(Dickens)  to  Switzerland,  where  he  [is]  going,  to  write  his 
new  work:  '  but,'  laughed  Tennyson,  '  if  I  went,  I  should 
be  entreating  him  to  dismiss  his  sentimentality,  and  so  we 
should  quarrel  and  part,  and  never  see  one  another  any 
more.  It  was  better  to  decline — and  I  have  declined.' 
When  George  had  told  his  story,  I  enquired  if  Tennyson 
was  what  was  called  an  agreeable  man — happy  in  conver- 
sation. And  the  reply  was  .  .  .  '  yes — but  quite  inferior 
to  Browning !  He  neither  talks  so  well, '  observed  George 
with  a  grave  consideration  and  balancing  of  the  sentences, 
.  .  '  nor  has  so  frank  and  open  a  manner.  The  advantages 
are  all  on  Browning's  side,  /  should  say.'  Now  dear 
George  is  a  little  criticised  you  must  know  in  this  house 
for  his  official  gravity  and  dignity — my  sisters  murmur  at 
him  very  much  sometimes  .  .  poor  dear  George ! —  but  he 
is  good  and  kind,  and  high  and  right  minded,  as  we  all 
know,  and  I,  for  my  part,  never  thought  of  criticising  him 
yesterday  when  he  said  those  words  rather  .  .  .  perhaps 
.  .  barristerially,  .  .  had  they  been  other  words. 

My  other  words  must  go  by  my  next  letter — I  am  to 
write  to  you  again  presently,  you  are  to  be  pleased  to  re- 
member .  .  and  that  letter  may  reach  you,  for  aught  I 
can  guess,  at  the  same  moment  with  this.  In  the  mean- 
time, ever  beloved, 

I  am  your 

Ba. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  1,  1846.] 

I  go  to  you,  my  Ba,  with  heart  full  of  love,  so  it  seems, 
— yet  I  come  away  always  with  a  greater  capacity  ot  hold- 
ing love,— for  there  is  more  and  still  more, — that  seems 
too!  At  the  beginning,  I  used  to  say  (most  truly)  that 
words  were  all  inadequate  to  express  my  feelings, — now, 
those  very  feelings  seem,  as  I  see  them  from  this  present 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  117 

moment,  just  as  inadequate  in  their  time  to  represent  what 
I  am  conscious  of  now.  I  do  feel  more,  widelier,  strange- 
lier  .  .  how  can  I  tell  you?  You  must  believe, — my  only, 
only  beloved !  I  daresay  I  have  said  this  before,  because 
it  has  struck  me  repeatedly, — and,  judging  by  past  experi- 
ence, I  shall  need  to  say  it  again — and  often  again.  Am  I 
really  destined  to  pass  my  life  sitting  by  you?  And  you 
speak  of  your  hesitation  at  trusting  in  miracles !  Oh,  my 
Ba,  my  heart's — well,  Ba,  I  am  so  far  guiltless  of  presump- 
tion, let  come  what  will,  that  I  never  for  the  moment  cease 
to  be  .  .  tremblingly  anxious  I  will  say, — and  conscious 
that  the  good  is  too  great  for  me  in  this  world.  You  do 
not  like  one  to  write  so,  I  know,  but  there  is  a  safety  in  it 
— the  presumptuous  walk  blindfold  among  pits,  to  a  proverb 
— and  no  one  shall  record  that  of  me.  And  if  I  have  cares 
and  scruples  of  this  kind  at  times,  or  at  all  times,  I  have 
none  where  most  other  people  would  have  very  many.  I 
never  ask  myself,  as  perhaps  I  should,' — '  Will  she  be  happy 
too?  ' — All  that  seems  removed  from  me,  far  above  my  con- 
cernment— she — you,  my  Ba  .  .  will  make  me  so  entirely 
happy,  that  it  seems  enough  to  know  .  .  my  palm-trees 
grow  well  enough  without  knowing  the  cause  of  the  sun's 
heat.  Then  I  think  again,  that  your  nature  is  to  make 
happy  and  to  bless,  and  itself  to  be  satisfied  with  that. — So 
instead  of  fruitless  speculations  how  to  give  you  back  your 
own  gift,  I  will  rather  resolve  to  lie  quietly  and  let  your 
dear  will  have  its  unrestricted  way.  All  which  I  take  up 
the  paper  determining  not  to  write, — for  it  is  foolish,  poor 
endeavour  at  best,  but, — just  this  time  it  is  written.  May 
God  bless  you — 

E.  B. 

I  called  on  Moxon,  who  is  better,  and  reports  cheeringly. 
Then  I  went  to  my  friend's,  and  thence  home,  not  much 
lired.  I  have  to  go  out  (to-day)  with  my  sister  but  only 
next  door.  To-morrow  I  hear  from  you,  love,  and  on 
Monday —  (unless  a  pressing  engagement  &g, — ah!) 


118   THE  LETTEES  OF  KOBEKT  BROWNING     [May  1 

What  do  you  say  to  this  little  familiar  passage  in  the 
daily  life  of  friend  Howitt, — for  which  I  am  indebted  to 
Moxon.  Howitt  is  book-making  about  Poets,  it  seems — 
where  they  were  born,  how  they  live,  '  what  relation  their 
mothers'  sons  are  to  their  fathers  ' — etc.  In  the  prosecu- 
tion of  this  laudable  object  he  finds  his  way  to  Ambleside, 
calls  on  Wordsworth  '  quite  promiscuously  '  as  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop  says,  meaning  nothing  at  all.  And  so  after  a  little 
ordinary  complimenting  and  play-talk,  our  man  of  business 
takes  to  good  earnest,  but  dexterous  questioning  .  .  all  for 
pure  interest  in  poetry  and  Mr  W.  '  So,  sir,  after  that 
school  .  .  if  I  understand — you  went  to  .  .  to  .  .  ? — and 
so  on.  Mr.  Wordsworth  the  younger  having  quicker  eyes 
than  his  father  detected  a  certain  shuffling  movement  be- 
tween the  visitor's  right  hand  and  some  mysterious  region 
between  the  chair's  back  and  his  coat-pocket  .  .  glimpses 
of  a  pocket  case  and  paper  note  book  were  obtained.  He 
thought  it  (the  son)  high  time  to  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Words- 
worth,— who  came  in  and  found  the  good  old  man  in  the 
full  outpouring  of  all  those  delightful  reminiscences  hitherto 
supposed  the  exclusive  property  of  Miss  Fenner  no  doubt ! 
Mrs.  W — '  desired  to  speak  with  William  for  a  moment ' 
(the  old  William) — and  then  came  the  amazement,  horror 
&c.  &c,  and  last  of  all  came  Mr.  Howitt's  bow  and  '  so  no 
more  at  present  from  your  loving  &c. ' —  Seriously,  in  my 
instinct— instinct — instinct  thrice  I  write  it  and  thank  my 
stars !  Moxon  said,  Howitt  is  '  just  gone  to  call  on  Tenny- 
son for  information — having  left  his  card  for  that  purpose.' 
'  And  one  day  will  call  on  you '  quoth  Moxon,  who  is  but  a 
sinister  prophet,  as  you  may  have  heard — Dii  meliora 
piis  !  It  is  fair  enough  in  Tennyson's  case,  for  he  is  ap- 
prised by  Howitt's  self  of  the  purpose  of  his  visit,  but  to 
try  and  inveigle  Wordsworth  into  doing  what  he  would 
hate  most  .  .  to  his  credit  be  it  said — why,  it  is  abomin- 
able— abominable ! 

Then  I  heard  another  story — his  wife,  Mary,  finds  out, 
■ — at  all  events,  translates   Miss  Bremer.     Another  pub- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  119 

lisher  gets  translated  other  works — or  may  be  the  same, — 
as  who  shall  say  him  nay?  Howitt  writes  him  a  letter 
(which  is  shown  my  informant),  wherein  '  rogue,'  '  thief,' 
'  rascal '  and  similar  elegancies  dance  pleasantly  through 
period  after  period. 

'  Come  out  from  among  them  my  soul,  neither  be  thou 
a  partaker  of  their  habitations ! ' 

From  all  which  I  infer — I  may  kiss  you,  may  I  not, 
love  Ba?  It  is  done,  may  I  or  may  I  not —  Ever  your 
own 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  2,  1846.] 

How  you  write  to  me !  Is  there  any  word  to  answer  to 
these  words  .  .  which,  when  I  have  read,  I  shut  my  eyes 
as  one  bewildered,  and  think  blindly  .  .  or  do  not  think — 
some  feelings  are  deeper  than  the  thoughts  touch.  My 
only  beloved,  it  is  thus  with  me  ...  I  stand  by  a  miracle 
in  your  love,  and  because  I  stand  in  it  and  it  covers  me, 
just  for  that,  you  cannot  see  me !  May  God  grant  that  you 
never  see  me — for  then  we  two  shall  be  '  happy  '  as  you  say, 
and  I,  in  the  only  possible  manner,  be  very  sure.  Mean- 
while, you  do  quite  well  not  to  speculate  about  making  me 
happy  .  .  your  instinct  knows,  if  you  do  not  know,  that  it 
is  implied  in  your  own  happiness  .  .  or  rather  (not  to  as- 
sume a  magnanimity)  in  my  sense  of  your  being  happy, 
not  apart  from  me.  As  God  sees  me,  and  as  I  know  at  all 
the  motions  of  my  own  soul,  I  may  assert  to  you  that  from 
the  first  moment  of  our  being  to  each  other  anything,  I 
never  conceived  of  happiness  otherwise  .  .  never  thought 
of  being  happy  through  you  or  by  you  or  in  you,  even — 
your  good  was  all  my  idea  of  good,  and  is.  I  hear  women 
say  sometimes  of  men  whom  they  love  .  .  '  such  a  one  will 
make  me  happy,  I  am  sure, '  or '  I  shall  be  happy  with  him, 
I  think ' — or  again  .  .  '  He  is  so  good  and  affectionate  that 
nobody  need  be  afraid  for  my  happiness.'    Now,  whether 


120   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [May  2 

you  like  or  dislike  it,  I  will  tell  you  that  I  never  had  such 
thoughts  of  you,  nor  ever,  for  a  moment,  gave  you  that  sort 
of  praise.  I  do  not  know  why  .  .  or  perhaps  I  do  .  .  but 
I  could  not  so  think  of  you  .  .  I  have  not  time  nor  breath 
.  .  I  could  as  soon  play  on  the  guitar  when  it  is  thunder- 
ing. So  be  happy,  my  own  dearest  .  .  and  if  it  should  be 
worth  a  thought  that  you  cannot  be  alone,  so,  you  may 
think  that  too.  You  have  so  deep  and  intense  a  nature, 
that  it  were  impossible  for  you  to  love  after  the  fashion  of 
other  men,  weakly  and  imperfectly,  and  your  love,  which 
comes  out  like  your  genius,  may  glorify  enough  to  make 
you  happy,  perhaps.  Which  is  my  dream,  my  calcula- 
tion rather,  when  I  am  happiest  now.  May  God  bless 
you.  Suppose  I  should  ever  read  in  your  eyes  that  you 
were  not  happy  with  me? — can  I  help,  do  you  fancy,  such 
thoughts?  Could  you  help  being  not  happy?  The  very 
word  '  unhappiness  '  implies  that  you  cannot  help  it.  Now 
forgive  me  my  naughtiness,  because  I  love  you,  and  never 
loved  but  you,  .  .  and  because  I  jjromise  not  to  go  with 
Miss  Bayley  to  Italy  .  .  I  promise.  Ah  If  you  could 
pretend  to  be  afraid  of  that,  indeed,  I  have  a  right  to  be 
afraid,  without  pretence  at  all  .  .  /who  am  a  woman  and 
frightened  of  lightning.  And  see  the  absurdity.  If  I 
did  not  go  to  Italy  with  you,  the  reason  would  be  that 
you  did  not  choose — and  if  you  did  not  choose,  I  should 
not  choose  .  .  I  would  not  see  Italy  without  your  eyes — 
could  I,  do  you  think?  So  if  Miss  Bayley  takes  me 
to  Italy  with  a  volume  of  the  Cyclic  poets,  it  will  be  as  a 
dead  Ba  clasped  up  between  the  leaves  of  it.  You  talked 
of  a  '  Flora, '  you  remember,  in  the  first  letter  I  had  from 
you. 

How  bad  of  William  Howitt!  How  right  you  are, 
always!  Yet  not  quite  always,  dear  dearest  beloved, 
happily  for  your  own 

Ba. 

Say  how  you  are  I  beseech  you,  and  honestly !    I  was 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  121 

down-stairs  to-day,  since  the  wind  changed,  and  am  the 
better  for  it.  What  writing  for  a  postman! — or  for  you 
even! 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  May  2,  1846.] 

No,  my  Ba,  your  letter  came  as  it  ought  last  night, — 
and  the  promise  it  contained  of  another  made  me  restless 
all  the  morning — to  no  purpose, — nothing  more  comes — 
yet — for  there  is  a  '  peradventure '  yet  unwithdrawn. 
When  I  do  not  hear  from  you,  as  now,  I  always  fancy 
there  was  some  signal  reason  why  I  ought  to  have  heard 
.  .  that  •  to-morrow, '  I  could  better  bear  the  not  hearing 
.  .  though  never,  never  do  yesterday's  letters  slip  by  a 
hair's  breadth  from  the  place  in  my  affection  they  once 
take, — they  could  not  have  been  dispensed  with, — but  the 
imaginary  letter  of  to-morrow  could,  by  contrast  with  to- 
day's exigencies  .  .  till  to-morrow  realty  comes  and  is 
found  preferring  such  claims  of  its  own — such  claims. 

This  letter  I  have  got,  and  will  try  and  love  enough  for 
two  .  .  I  can  do  no  harm  by  trying  .  .  this  I  do  not  mean 
to  say  that  I  expected.  May  I  say  '  in  heart-playing,'  .  . 
now,  Ba,  it  will  be  a  fancy,  which  you  can  pounce  on  and 
poke  your  humming-bird  bill  through,  like  a  needle,  in  a 
very  'twinkling,'  and  so  shall  my  flower's  eye  be  ruined 
for  ever,  and  when  it  turns  black  and  shrivels  up  as  dead 
flowers  do,  you  can  triumph  and  ask  '  are  these  your  best 
flowers,  best  feelings  for  me?  '.  But  now,  after  this  depre- 
cation, you  will  be  generous  and  only  hover  above,  using 
the  diamond  eye  rather  than  the  needle-bill, — and  I  will 
go  on  and  dare  say  that  I  should  like,  for  one  half  second, 
not  to  love  you,  and  then  feel  all  the  love  lit  up  in  a  flame 
to  the  topmost  height,  at  the  falling  of  such  a  letter  on  my 
heart.  Don't  you  know  that  foolish  boys  sometimes  play 
at  hanging  themselves— suspend  themselves  by  the  neck 
actually  for  such  a  half  second  as  this  of  my  fancying — 


122   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [May  3 

that  they  may  taste  the  luxury  of  catching  back  at  exis- 
tence, and  being  cut  down  again?  There  is  a  notable  ex- 
emplification, a  worthy  simile !  It  all  comes,  I  suppose, 
from  the  joy  of  being  rid  handsomely  of  my  dinners  and  in 
a  fair  way  for  Monday  .  .  nothing  between  but  letters,— I 
shall  continue  to  hope !  At  sea  it  always  sounds  pleasantly 
to  hear  .  .  after  passing  Cape  This  and  Isle  the  other, 
'  now,  nexthmd  we  make  is — Italy,  or  England,  or  Greece.' 

Moxon  told  me  Tennyson  was  still  in  Town.  Switzer- 
land? He  is  a  fortnight  going  to  wherever  a  Train  takes 
him — '  for, '  says  Moxon,  '  he  has  to  pack  up,  and  is  too 
late,  and  next  day  '  .  .  I  dare  say  he  unaffectedly  hates 
London  where  this  poco-curanteism  would  entail  all  manner 
of  disagreeabilities.  If  I  caught  rightly  .  .  that  is,  now 
apply  rightly,  a  word  or  two  I  heard  .  .  one  striking 
celebrity  at  Dickens'  Dinner  was — Lord  Chesterfield — 
literary,  inasmuch  as  a  great  '  maker  up  of  books  ' — for  the 
Derby.  Macready  may  have  been  another  personage — 
they,  Tennyson  and  he,  may  '  fadge, '  in  Shakespearian 
phrase,  if  the  writer  of  the  '  Two  Voices '  &c.  considers 
Home's  '  Douglas  '  exquisite  poetry, — otherwise, — it  is  a 
chance ! 

But  with  respect  to  your  Brother  .  .  first  of  all — nay, 
and  last  of  all,  for  it  all  is  attributable  to  that — I  feel  his 
kindness,  in  its  way,  as  I  feel  yours;  as  truly,  according 
to  its  degree  and  claim :  but — '  now  think  what  I  would 
speak! ' — When  he  really  does  see  me  one  day — no  longer 
embarrassed  as  under  the  circumstances  I  could  not  but 
have  been  on  these  two  or  three  occasions  when  we  met — 
he  will  find  something  better  than  conversational  powers 
to  which  I  never  pretended — and  what  he  will  accept  in 
preference, — a  true,  faithful  desire  of  repaying  his  good- 
ness— he  will  find  it,  that  is,  because  it  must  be  there,  and 
I  have  confidence  in  such  feelings  making  sooner  or  later 
their  way. 

So  now,  at  2£  p.m.,  I  must  ( — here  is  the  Post  .  .  from 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  123 

you?     Yes— the  letter  is  here  at  last — I  was  waiting : — now 
to  read ;  no,  kissing  it  comes  first. 

And  now  .  .  I  will  not  say  a  word,  my  love  of  loves, 
my  dearest,  dearest  Ba,— not  one  word— but  I  will  go  out 
and  walk  where  I  can  be  alone,  and  think  out  all  my 
thought  of  you,  and  bless  you  and  love  you  with  nothing 
to  intercept  the  blessing  and  the  love.  I  will  look  in  the 
direction  of  London  and  send  my  heart  there  .  .  Dear, 
dear  love,  I  kiss  you  and  commend  you  to  God.  Your 
very  own  — 

I  am  very  well — quite  well,  dearest. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  May  4,  1846.] 

When  I  said  one  more  letter  might  come  before  to-mor- 
row, I  forgot.  How  used  I  to  manage  in  the  early  '  day 
of  small  things  ' — comparatively — when  letters  came  once 
a  week  at  most,  and  yet  I  felt  myself  so  rich,  dearest! 

I  want  you  to  remember,  Ba,  what  I  shall  be  nearly 
sure  to  forget  when  closer  to  you  than  now;  tell  me  to- 
morrow. If  I  chance  to  see  Mrs.  Jameson  in  the  course 
of  the  week  what  am  I  to  say, — that  is,  what  have  you  de- 
cided on  saying?  Does  she  know  that  you  write  to  me? 
Because  there  is  a  point  of  simple  good  taste  to  be  pre- 
served .  .  I  must  not  listen  with  indifference  if  I  am  told 
that  '  her  friend  Miss  B.'  thought  well  of  the  last  number. 
But  she  must  know  we  write,  I  think, — never  make  any 
secret  of  that,  when  the  subject  is  brought  forward. 

Here  is  warm  May  weather,  my  Ba;  I  do  not  shiver 
by  sympathy  as  I  fancy  you  going  down  stairs.  I  shall 
hope  to  see  the  sweet  face  look  its  .  .  now,  what? 
'Best'  would  be  altogether  an  impertinence, — unless  you 
help  my  meaning,  which  is  '  best, '  too. 

I  received  two  days  ago  a  number  of  the  People's  Jour- 


124   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [May  4 

nal — from  our  illustrious  contemporary,  Bennett!  Ben- 
nett figures  where  Barrett  might  have  fronted  the  world. 
Fact !  I  will  cut  you  out  his  very  original  lyric  ' — observe 
the  felicitous  emendation  in  the  author's  own  blue  ink  .  . 
that  supplemental  trochee  makes  a  musical  line  of  it! 
Mary  Howitt  follows  with  a  pretty,  washy,  very  meritorious 
Lyric  of  Life.  There  is  '  a  guilty  one  ' — '  Name  her  not! ' 
'  Virtue  turns  aside  for  shame  ' 

She  was  born  of  guilty  kin — ■ 
Her  life's  course  hath  guilty  been — 
Unto  school  she  never  went — 
And  whate'er  she  learned  was  sin, — 
Let  Her  Die  ! 

And  so  on — what  pure  nonsense !  Who  cries  e  let  her 
die '  in  the  whole  world  now?  thank  God,  nobody.  The 
sin  of  the  world  (of  the  lookers-on,  not  the  causers  of  the 
wrong)  consists,  in  these  days,  in  looking-on  and  asking 
'  How  can  we  help  her  dying — or  factory  children's  dying 
— or  evicted  Irish  peasantry's  dying? '  What  ails  these 
Howitts  of  a  sudden,  that  they  purvey  this  kind  of  cat-lap, 
— they  that  once  did  better?  William  Howitt  grinds  here 
an  article  on  May  day ;  past  human  power  of  reading  of 
course,  but  I  just  noticed  that  not  a  venerablest  common- 
place was  excused  on  account  of  its  age — the  quotation  from 
Chaucer,  Spenser,  Herrick  got  once  more  into  rank  and  file 
with  the  affecting  alacrity  shown  the  other  day  at  a  review 
of  the  Chelsea  invalids  !     Oh,  William,  '  Let  them  die ! ' 

So  goodbye  till  to-morrow,  my  dearest.     I  love  you  and 
bless  you  ever,  and  am  your 

R.  B. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  5,  1846.] 

Yes,  you  were  right,  my  Ba — our  meeting  was  on  the 
20th  of  last  May :  the  next  letter  I  received  was  the  14th 
and  that  ran  in  my  head,  no  doubt,  yesterday.     You  must 
1  ['Cry  of  the  Spring  Flower-seller, '  by  W.  C.  Bennett.] 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEBETT  125 

have  many  such  mistakes  to  forgive  in  me  when  I  under- 
take to  talk  and  '  stare  '  at  the  same  time  .  .  well  for  me  if 
they  are  no  more  serious  mistakes ! 

I  referred  to  my  letters — and  found  much  beside  the 
date  to  reflect  on.  I  will  tell  you.  Would  it  not  be  peril- 
ous in  some  cases, — many  cases — to  contrast  the  present 
with  the  very  early  Past :  the  first  time,  even  when  there  is 
abundant  fruit,  with  the  dewy  springing  and  blossoming? 
One  would  confess  to  a  regret  at  the  vanishing  of  that 
charm,  at  least,  if  it  were  felt  to  be  somehow  vanished  out 
of  the  present.  And,  looking  upon  our  experience  as  if  it 
were  another's, — undoubtedly  the  peril  seems  doubled — 
with  that  five  months'  previous  correspondence  .  .  only 
then, — after  all  the  curiosity,  and  hope  and  fear, — the  first 
visit  to  come !  And  after, — shortly  after, — you  know — the 
heightened  excitement  that  followed  .  .  I  should  not  be- 
lieve in  the  case  of  another, — or  should  not  have  believed, 
— that  the  strange  delight  could  last  .  .  no  more  than  I 
should  think  it  reasonable  to  wonder,  or  even  grieve,  that 
it  did  not  last — so  long  as  other  delights  came  in  due  suc- 
cession. Now,  hear  the  truth !  I  never,  God  knows,  felt 
the  joy  of  being  with  you  as  I  felt  it  yesteeday — the  fruit 
of  my  happiness  has  grown  under  the  blossom,  lifting  it  and 
keeping  it  as  a  coronet — not  one  feeling  is  lost,  and  the  new 
feelings  are  infinite.  Ah,  my  Ba,  can  you  wonder  if  I 
seem  less  inclined  to  see  the  adorable  kindness  in  those 
provisions,  and  suppositions,  and  allowances  for  escape, 
change  of  mind  &c,  you  furnish  me  with, — than  to  be 
struck  at  the  strange  fancy  which,  as  I  said,  insists  on  my 
being  free  to  leave  off  breathing  vital  air  the  moment  it 
shall  so  please  me? 

And  when  I  spoke  of  '  dishonouring  suppositions  '  I  had 
not  the  faintest  approximation  to  an  idea  of  standing  in 
your  eyes  for  a  magna  imous  keeper  of  promises,  vow- 
observer,  and  the  rest.  All  that  is  profoundly  pitiable! 
But  to  change  none  of  my  views  of  the  good  of  this  life  and 
the  next,  and  yet  to  give  up  my  love  on  the  view   (for  in- 


126  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [May  5 

stance)  which  sees  that  good  in  mone3r,  or  worldly  advance- 
ment,— what  is  that  if  not  dishonouring? 

All  the  while,  I  know  your  thought,  your  purpose  in  it 
all, — I  believe  and  am  sure — and  I  bless  you  from  my 
heart — you  will  soon  know,  what  you  have  to  know — /be- 
lieve, beforehand,  I  repeat. 

I  am  rather  out  of  spirits  to-day — thus  I  feel  toward 
you  when  at  all  melancholy  .  .  you  would  undo  me  in 
withdrawing  from  me  your  help,  undo  me,  I  feel !  When, 
as  ordinarily,  I  am  cheerful,  I  have  precisely  the  same 
conviction.     Does  that  prove  nothing,  my  Ba? 

Well,  I  give  up  proving,  or  trying  to  prove  anything — 
from  the  beginning  I  abjured  mere  words — and  now,  much 
more! 

Let  me  kiss  you,  ever  best  and  dearest !  My  life  is  in 
the  hand  you  call  '  mine, ' — if  that  hand  would  c  shake  ' 
less  from  letting  it  fall,  I  earnestly  pray  God  may  relieve 
you  of  it  nor  ever  let  you  be  even  aware  of  what  followed 
your  relief !     For  what  should  one  live  or  die  in  this  world? 

I  am  wholly  yours — ■ 

Did  I  not  meet  two  of  your  brothers  yesterday  in  the 
Hall?  Pray  take  care  of  this  cold  wind — be  satisfied  with 
the  good  deeds  of  the  last  few  days. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  6,  1846.] 

Dearest,  it  has  just  come  into  my  head  that  I  should 
like  to  carry  this  letter  to  the  post  myself — but  no,  I  shall 
not  be  able.  Probably  the  post  is  far  out  of  reach,  and 
even  if  it  were  within  reach,  my  grand  scheme  of  walking 
in  the  street  is  scarcely  a  possible  thing  to-day,  for  I  must 
keep  watch  in  the  house  from  two  till  five  for  Lady  Mar- 
garet Cocks,  an  old  friend  of  mine,  who  was  kind  to  me 
when  I  was  a  child,  in  the  country,  and  has  not  forgotten 
me  since,  when,  two  months  in  the  year,  she  has  been  in 


1845]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  12? 

the  habit  of  going  to  London.  A  good,  worthy  person, 
with  a  certain  cultivation  as  to  languages  and  literature, 
but  quite  manquee  on  the  side  of  the  imagination  .  .  talk- 
ing of  the  poets,  as  a  blind  woman  of  colours,  calling 
'  Pippa  Passes '  '  pretty  and  odd, '  and  writing  herself 
'  poems  '  in  heaps  of  copy  books  which  every  now  and  then 
she  brings  to  show  me  .  .  .  '  odes  '  to  Hope  and  Patience 
and  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  with  formulas  of  '  Begin  my 
muse  '  in  the  fashion  ended  last  century.  She  has  helped 
to  applaud  and  scold  me  since  I  could  walk  and  write 
verses ;  and  when  I  was  so  wicked  as  to  go  to  dissenting 
chapels  besides,  she  reproached  me  with  tears  in  her 
eyes ;  but  they  were  tears  of  earnest  partizanship,  and  not 
of  affection  for  me,  .  .  she  does  not  love  me  after  all,  nor 
guess  at  my  heart,  and  I  do  not  love  her,  I  feel.  Woe  to 
us !  for  there  are  good  and  unlovable  people  in  the  world, 
and  we  cannot  help  it  for  our  lives. 

In  the  midst  of  writing  which,  comes  the  Leeds  Miss 
Heaton,  who  used  to  send  me  those  long  confidential  letters 
a  faire  fremir,  and  beg  me  to  call  her  '  Ellen, '  and  as  this 
is  the  second  time  that  she  has  sent  up  her  card,  in  an 
accidental  visit  to  London,  I  thought  I  would  be  good- 
natured  for  once,  and  see  her.  An  intelligent  woman,  with 
large  black  eyes  and  a  pleasant  voice,  and  young  .  .  man- 
ners provincial  enough,  for  the  rest,  and  talking  as  if  the 
world  were  equally  divided  between  the  '  Congregational- 
ists '  and  the  '  Churchpeople. '  She  assured  me  that '  Dr. 
Vaughan  was  very  much  annoyed '  at  the  article  on  my 
poems  which  '  crept '  into  his  review,  and  that  it  was  fully 
intended  to  recant  at  length  on  the  first  convenient  oppor- 
tunity. 'And  really,'  she  said,  'it  seems  to  me  that  you 
have  as  many  admirers  among  churchmen  as  among  dis- 
senters.'! There's  glory! — and  I  kept  my  countenance. 
Lost  it  though,  five  minutes  afterwards,  when  she  observed 
pathetically,  that  a  '  friend  of  hers  who  had  known  Mr. 
Browning  quite  intimately,  had  told  her  he  was  an  infidel 
.  .  .  more's  the  pity,  when  he  has  such  a  genius.'     I  de- 


128   THE  LETTEBS  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNING      [May  6 

sired  the  particular  information  of  your  intimate  friend,  a 
little  more  warmly  perhaps  than  was  necessary,  .  .  but 
what  could  be  expected  of  me,  I  wonder? 

I  shall  write  again  to  you  to-night,  you  know,  and  this 
is  enough  for  two  o'clock.  Now  will  you  get  my  letter 
on  this  Tuesday?  Do  you  think  of  me  .  .  love  me?  And 
are  you  well  to-day?  The  flowers  look  beautiful  though 
you  put  their  heads  into  the  water  instead  of  their  feet. 

Your  Ba. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  May  6,  1846.1 

But  my  own  only  beloved,  I  surely  did  not  speak  too 
'  insistingly  '  yesterday.  I  shrank  from  your  question  as 
you  put  it,  because  you  put  it  wrong.  If  you  had  asked 
me  instead,  whether  I  meant  to  keep  my  promise  to  you, 
I  would  have  answered  '  yes  '  without  hesitation :  but  the 
form  you  chose,  referred  to  you  more  than  to  me,  and  was 
indeed  and  indeed  a  foolish  form  of  a  question,  my  own 
dearest !  For  the  rest  .  .  ah,  you  do  not  see  my  innermost 
nature,  .  .  you  ! — you  are  happily  too  high,  and  cannot  see 
into  it  .  .  cannot  perceive  how  the  once  elastic  spring  is 
broken  with  the  long  weights !  .  .  you  wonder  that  it 
should  drop,  when  you,  who  lifted  it  up,  do  not  hold  it 
up!  you  cannot  understand!  .  you  wonder!  And /won- 
der too  .  .  on  the  other  side !  I  wonder  how  I  can  feel 
happy  and  alive  .  .  as  I  can,  through  you  1  how  I  can  turn 
my  face  toward  life  again  .  .  as  I  can,  for  you!  .  .  and 
chiefly  of  all,  how  I  can  ever  imagine  .  .  as  I  do,  some- 
times .  .  that  such  a  one  as  you,  may  be  happy  perhaps 
with  such  a  one  as  I!  .  .  happy  ! 

Do  not  judge  me  severely,  you,  to  whom  I  have  given 
both  hands,  for  your  own  uses  and  ends ! — you,  who  are 
more  to  me  than  I  can  be  to  you,  even  by  your  own  state- 
ment— better  to  me  than  life  .  .  or  than  death  even,  as 
death  seemed  to  me  before  I  knew  you. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  129 

Certainly  I  love  you  enough,  and  trust  you  enough,  if 
you  knew  what  God  knows.  Yet,  .  .  '  now  hear  me. '  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  please  you,  I  think,  by  a  firm  continued 
belief  of  this  engagement's  being  justifiable,  until  the  event 
wholly  has  justified  it  .  .  I  mean,  .  .  until  I  shall  see  you 
not  less  happy  for  having  lived  near  me  for  six  months  or 
a  year — should  God's  mercy  permit  such  justification.  Do 
not  blame  me.  I  cannot  help  it  .  .  I  would,  if  I  could, 
help  it.  Every  time  you  say,  as  in  this  dearest  letter,  ever 
dearest,  that  you  have  been  happy  on  such  a  day  through 
being  with  me,  I  have  a  new  astonishment— it  runs  through 
me  from  head  to  feet  .  .  I  open  my  eyes  astonished, 
whenever  my  sun  rises  in  the  morning,  as  if  I  saw  an  angel 
in  the  sun.  And  1  do  see  him,  in  a  sense.  Ah — if  you 
make  a  crime  to  me  of  my  astonishments,  it  is  all  over  in- 
deed! can  I  help  it,  indeed?  So  forgive  me !  let  it  not  be 
too  great  a  wrong  to  be  covered  by  a  pardon.  Think  that 
we  are  different,  you  and  I — and  do  not  think  that  I  would 
send  you  to  '  money  and  worldly  advancement '  .  .  do  not 
think  so  meanly  of  my  ambition  for  you. 

Dearest  dearest ! — do  you  ever  think  that  I  could  fail 
to  you?  Do  you  doubt  for  a  moment,  ever  .  .  ever,  .  . 
that  my  hand  might  peradventure  '  shake  less '  in  being 
loosed  from  yours?  Why,  it  might — and  would!  Dead 
hands  do  not  shake  at  all, — and  only  so,  could  my  hand  be 
loosed  from  yours  through  a  failing  on  my  part.  It  is 
your  hand,  while  you  hold  it:  while  you  choose  to  hold  it, 
and  while  it  is  a  living  hand. 

Do  you  know  what  you  are  to  me,  .  .  you  ?  We  talk  of 
the  mild  weather  doing  me  good  .  .  of  the  sun  doing  me 
good  .  .  of  going  into  the  air  as  a  means  of  good !  Have 
you  done  me  no  good,  do  you  fancy,  in  loving  me  and  lift- 
ing me  up?  Has  the  unaccustomed  divine  love  and  tender- 
ness been  nothing  to  me?  Think/  Mrs.  Jameson  says 
earnestly  .  .  said  to  me  the  other  day  .  .  that  '  love  was 
only  magnetism.'  And  I  say  in  my  heart,  that,  magnet  or 
no  magnet,  I  have  been  drawn  back  into  life  by  your  means 
vo*,.  II.— 9 


130   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [May  6 

and  for  you  .  .  that  I  see  the  dancing  mystical  lights 
which  are  seen  through  the  eyelids  .  .  and  I  think  of  you 
with  an  unspeakable  gratitude  always — always !  No  other 
could  have  done  this  for  me — it  was  not  possible,  except 
by  you. 

But,  no — do  not,  beloved,  wish  the  first  days  here 
again.  You  saw  your  way  better  in  them  than  I  did.  I 
had  too  bitter  feelings  sometimes :  they  looked  to  me  like 
an  epigram  of  destiny !  as  if  '  He  who  sitteth  on  high 
should  laugh  her  to  scorn — should  hold  her  in  derision' — 
as  why  not?  My  best  hope  was  that  you  should  be  my 
friend  after  all.  We  will  not  have  them  back  again  .  . 
those  days !  And  in  these,  you  do  not  love  me  less  but 
more?  Would  it  be  strange  to  thank  you?  I  feel  as  if  I 
ought  to  thank  you  ! 

I  have  written,  written,  and  have  more  to  write,  yet 
must  end  here  now.  The  letter  I  wrote  this  morning  and 
gave  to  my  sister  to  leave  in  the  post,  she  was  so  naughty 
as  to  forget,  and  has  been  well  scolded  as  a  consequence ; 
but  the  scolding  did  not  avail,  I  fear,  to  take  the  letter  to 
you  to-night;  there  is  no  chance !  Mrs.  Jameson  came  to- 
day when  I  was  engaged  with  Lady  Margaret  Cocks  and  I 
could  not  see  her — and  Mr.  Kenyon  came,  when  I  could  see 
him  and  was  glad.  I  am  tired  with  my  multitude  of  visi- 
tors— oh,  so  tired! 

Why  are  you  melancholy,  dear,  dearest?  Was  it  my 
fault!  could  that  be?  no — you  were  unwell,  I  think  .  .  I 
fear.  Say  how  you  are;  and  believe  that  you  may  answer 
your  own  questions,  for  that  I  never  can  fail  to  you.  If 
two  persons  have  one  will  on  a  matter  of  that  sort,  they 
need  not  be  thwarted  here  in  London — so  answer  your  own 
questions. 

Wholly  and  ever  yours  I  am. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  131 

R.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  6,  1846.] 

Dearest  Ba  let  me  [be]  silent,  as  on  other  occasions, 
over  what  you  promise :  one  reads  of  '  a  contest  in  gener- 
osity, '  and  how  this  party  was  as  determined  to  give,  as 
that  party  not  to  accept — far  from  anything  so  graceful,  I 
am  compelled  to  clutch  at  the  offering,  I  take  all,  because, 
because — because  I  must,  now !  May  God  requite  you,  my 
best  beloved ! 

I  met  Mrs.  Jameson  last  evening  and  she  began  just  as 
I  prophesied  .  .  '  but '  said  she  '  I  will  tell  you  all  when 
you  come  and  breakfast  with  me  on  Thursday — which  a 
note  of  mine  now  on  its  way  to  you,  desires  may  happen ! ' 

A  large  party  at  Chorley's,  and  admirable  music — not 
without  a  pleasant  person  or  two.  I  wish  you  could  hear 
that  marvellous  Pischek,  with  his  Rhine  songs,  and  Bohe- 
mian melodies.  Then  a  Herr  Kellerman  told  a  kind  of 
crying  story  on  the  violoncello,  full  of  quiet  pathos,  and 
Godefroi — if  they  so  spell  him — harped  like  a  God  harp- 
ing, immortal  victorious  music  indeed !  Altogether  a  nota- 
ble evening  .  .  oh,  the  black  ingratitude  of  man  .  .  these 
few  words  are  the  poor  '  set-off  '  to  this  morning's  weary 
yawning,  and  stupefaction.  To-night  having  to  follow  be- 
side !  So  near  you  I  shall  be !  Mrs.  J.  is  to  [be]  at  the 
Procters'  to-night  too.  Oh,  by  the  way,  and  in  the  straight 
way  to  make  Ba  laugh  .  .  Mrs.  J.'s  first  word  was  '  What? 
Are  you  married? '  She  having  caught  a  bit  of  Miss 
Chorley's  enquiry  after  '  Mrs.  Browning's  health  '  i.e.  my 
mother's.  Probably  Miss  Heaton's  friend,  who  is  my  in- 
timate, heard  me  profess  complete  infidelity  as  to — homoe- 
opathy .  .  que  sais-je  ?  But  of  all  accusations  in  the  world 
.  .  what  do  you  say  to  my  having  been  asked  if  I  was  not 
the  Author  of  '  Borneo  and  Juliet, '  and '  Othello  '  ?  A  man 
actually  asked  me  that,  as  I  sate  in  Covent  Garden  Pit  to 


132   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [May  6 

see  the  second  representation  of  '  Strafford ' — I  supposed 
lie  had  been  set  on  by  somebody,  but  the  simple  face  looked 
too  quiet  for  that  impertinence — I  was  muffled  up  in  a 
cloak,  too;  so  I  said  'No — so  far  as  I  am  aware.'  (His 
question  was,  '  is  not  this  Mr.  Browning  the  author  of  &c. 
&c.')  After  the  play,  all  was  made  clear  by  somebody 
in  Macready's  dressing  room — two  burlesques  on  Shaks- 
peare  ivere  in  the  course  of  performance  at  some  minor 
theatre  by  a  Mr.  Brown,  or  Brownley,  or  something  Brown- 
like— and  to  these  my  friend  had  alluded. 

So  is  begot,  so  nourished  c  il  mondan  rumor  e ' — 7",  author 
of  '  Othello  ' ! — when  I  can  be,  and  am,  and  may  tell  Ba  I 
am,  her  own,  own  R. 

The  news  about  the  post — the  walk  there  which  might 
have  been, — that  is  pure  delight!  But  take  care,  my  all- 
precious  \o\e—festina  lente.  All  the  same,  what  a  vision  I 
have  of  the  Bonnet ! 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  May  7,  1846.] 

Now,  dearest,  you  are  close  by  and  I  am  writing  to  you 
as  if  you  were  ever  so  far  off.  People  are  not  always  the 
better,  you  see,  for  being  near  one  another.  There's  a 
moral  to  put  on  with  your  gloves — and  if  you  were  not 
quite  sufficiently  frightened  by  Mrs.  Jameson's  salutation, 
it  may  be  of  some  use  to  you  perhaps — who  knows? 

She  left  word  yesterday  that  she  should  come  to-day  or 
to-morrow,  and  as  to-day  she  didn't,  I  shall  hear  of  you 
from  her  to-morrow  .  .  that  is,  if  you  go  to  her  breakfast, 
which  you  will  do  I  dare  say,  supposing  that  you  are  not 
perfectly  ill  and  exhausted  by  what  came  before.  Ah — you 
do  not  say  how  you  are — and  I  know  what  that  means. 
Even  the  music  was  half  lost  in  the  fatigue  .  .  that  is  what 
you  express  by  '  stupefaction. '     And  then  to  have  to  dine 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  133 

at  Mr.  Procter's  without  music  .  .  say  how  you  are  .  .  do 
not  omit  it  this  time. 

Nor  think  that  I  shall  forget  how  to-morrow  is  the  sev- 
enth of  May  .  .  your  month  as  you  call  it  somewhere  .  . 
in  Sordello,  I  believe  .  .  so  that  I  knew  before,  you  had  a 
birthday  there — and  I  shall  remember  it  to-morrow  and 
send  you  the  thoughts  which  are  yours,  and  pray  for  you 
that  you  may  be  saved  from  March-winds  .  .  ever  dearest! 

I  am  glad  you  heard  the  music  after  all :  it  was  some- 
thing to  hear,  as  you  describe  it. 

To-day  I  had  a  book  sent  to  me  from  America  by  the 
poetess  Mrs.  Osgood.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  poetess  Mrs. 
Osgood?  .  .  and  her  note  was  of  the  very  most  affection- 
ate, and  her  book  is  of  the  most  gorgeous,  all  purple  and 
gold — and  she  tells  me  .  .  oh,  she  tells  me  .  .  that  I 
ought  to  go  to  New  York,  only  '  to  see  Mr.  Poe's  wild  eyes 
flash  through  tears  '  when  he  reads  my  verses.  It  is  over- 
coming to  think  of,  even  .  .  isn't  it?  Talking  of  poetesses, 
such  as  Mrs.  Osgood  and  me,  Miss  Heaton,  .  .  the  friend 
of  your  intimate  friend,  .  .  told  me  yesterday  that  the 
poetess  proper  of  the  city  of  Leeds  was  'Mrs.  A.'  .  '  Mrs. 
A.  ?  '  said  I  with  an  enquiring  innocence.  '  Oh, '  she  went 
on,  (divining  sarcasms  in  every  breath  I  drew)  .  .  '  oh !  I 
dare  say,  you  wouldn't  admit  her  to  be  a  real  poetess.  But 
as  she  lives  in  Leeds  and  writes  verses,  we  call  her  our 
poetess !  and  then,  really,  Mrs.  A.  is  a  charming  woman. 
She  was  a  Miss  Roberts  .  .  and  her  '  Spirit  of  the  Woods,' 
and  of  the  'Flowers'  has  been  admired,  I  assure  you.' 
Well,  in  a  moment  I  seemed  to  remember  something, — 
because  only  a  few  months  since,  surely  I  had  a  letter  from 
somebody  who  once  was  a  spirit  of  the  Woods  or  ghost  of 
the  Flowers.  Still,  I  could  not  make  out  31rs.  A.  .  .  ! 
'  Certainly  '  I  confessed  modestly,  '  I  never  did  hear  of  a 
Mrs.  A.  .  .  and  yet,  and  yet'  .  .  .  A  most  glorious  con- 
fusion I  was  in  .  .  when  suddenly  my  visitor  thought  of 
spelling  the  name  .  .  'Hey''  said  she.  Now  conceive 
that!    The  Mrs.  Hey  who  came  by  solution,  had  both 


134  THE  LETTEKS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [May  7 

written  to  me  and  sent  me  a  book  on  the  Lakes  quite  lately 
.  .  '  by  the  author  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Woods '  .  .  There 
was  the  explanation !  And  my  Leeds  visitor  will  go  back 
and  say  that  I  denied  all  knowledge  of  the  charming  Mrs. 
A.  the  Leeds  poetess,  and  that  it  was  with  the  greatest  dif- 
ficulty I  could  be  brought  to  recognise  her  existence.  Oh, 
the  arrogance  and  ingratitude  of  me!  And  Mrs.  A.  .  . 
being  '  a  churchwoman  '  .  .  .  will  expose  me  of  course  to 
the  churchwardens !  May  you  never  fall  into  such  ill  luck ! 
You  could  not  expect  me  to  walk  to  the  post  office  after- 
wards— now  could  you? 

What  nonsense  and  foolishness  I  take  it  into  my  head 
to  send  you  sometimes. 

I  was  downstairs  to-day  but  not  out  of  the  house.  Now 
you  are  talking,  now  you  are  laughing — I  think  that  al- 
most I  can  hear  you  when  I  listen  hard  .  .  at  Mr.  Procter's ! 

Do  you,  on  the  other  side,  hear  me?  .  .  and  how  I  am 
calling  myself  your  verv  own 

Ba 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  May  7,  1846.] 

No,  dearest, — I  get  Mrs.  Jameson's  leave  to  put  the 
breakfast  off  till  to-morrow — and  this  morning,  instead  of 
resting  as  I  had  intended,  I  wisely  went  to  town,  to  get  a 
call  on  Forster  off  my  mind — I  have  walked  there  and  back 
again  .  .  see  the  weakness  you  pity  !  I  cheat  you,  my  Ba, 
of  all  that  pity  .  .  yet  when  I  have  got  it,  however  un- 
justly, I  lay  it  to  my  heart. 

And  I  was  at  Mrs.  Procter's  last  night — Kinglake  and 
Chorley,  with  a  little  of  Milnes  and  Coventry  Patmore — 
but  no  Howitts:  because  they  have  a  sick  child, — dying,  I 
am  afraid.  On  my  return  I  found  a  note  from  Home,  who 
is  in  London  of  a  sudden  for  a  week. 

Oh,  —  The  Daily  News  passes  into  the  redoubtable  hands 
of  Mr,  Dilke, — and  the  price  is  to  be  reduced  to  2|d,  in 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABBETT  135 

emulation  of  the  system  recently  adopted  by  the  French 
Journals.  Forster  continues  to  write,  on  the  new  Editor's 
particular  entreaty.  I  rather  think  the  scheme  will  suc- 
ceed, Dilke  having  the  experience  the  present  regime  wants 
— he  will  buy  his  privileges  cheaply  too.  So  that  Chorley 
may  possibly  be  employed.  Here  ends  my  patronage  of 
it,  at  all  events — not  another  number  do  I  groan  over! 

Patmore  told  me  in  his  quiet  way  that  his  criticisms — 
his  book  on  which  he  had  been  expending  a  world  of  pains, 
is  altogether  superseded  by  the  appearance  of  *'  Ulrici  on 
Shakespeare  ' — '  the  very  words  of  many  of  his  more  im- 
portant paragraphs  are  the  same. '  Tliat  astounds  one  a 
little,  does  it  not? 

And  what,  wliat  do  you  suppose  Tennyson's  business 
to  have  been  at  Dickens' — what  caused  all  the  dining  and 
repining?  He  has  been  sponsor  to  Dickens'  child  in  com- 
pany with  Count  D'  Orsay,  and  accordingly  the  novus  homo 
glories  in  the  prsenomina,  Alfred  D' Orsay  Tennyson  Dick- 
ens !  Ah,  Charlie,  if  this  don't  prove  to  posterity  that  you 
might  have  been  a  Tennyson  and  were  a  D'Orsay — why 
excellent  labour  will  have  been  lost !  You  observe,  'Alfred ' 
is  common  to  both  the  godfather  and  the — devilfather,  as 
I  take  the  Count  to  be :  so  Milnes  has  been  goodnaturedly 
circulating  the  report  that  in  good  truth  it  is  the  Alfred  of 
neither  personage,  but  of — Mr  Alfred  Bunn.  When  you 
remember  what  the  form  of  sponsorship  is,  to  what  it 

pledges  you  in  the  ritual  of  the  Church  of  England and 

then  remember  that  Mr  Dickens  is  an  enlightened  Unita- 
rian,— you  will  get  a  curious  notion  of  the  man,  I  fancy. 

Have  you  not  forgotten  that  birthday?  Do,  my  Ba, 
forget  it — my  day,  as  I  told  you,  is  the  20th — my  true, 
happiest  day !  But  I  thank  you  all  I  can,  dearest — All 
good  to  me  comes  through  you,  or  for  you — every  wish  and 
hope  ends  in  you.     May  God  bless  you,  ever  dear  Ba. — 

Your  own  B. 


136   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [May  7 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

May  7th,  1846. 

Beloved,  my  thoughts  go  to  you  this  morning,  loving 
and  blessing  you !  May  God  bless  you  for  both  His  worlds 
— not  for  this  alone.  For  me,  if  I  can  ever  do  or  be  any- 
thing to  you,  it  will  be  my  uttermost  blessing  of  all  I  ever 
knew,  or  could  know,  as  He  knows.  A  year  ago,  I  thought, 
with  a  sort  of  mournful  exultation,  that  I  was  'pure  of 
wishes.  Now,  they  recoil  back  on  me  in  a  spring-tide  .  . 
flow  back,  wave  upon  wave,  .  .  till  I  should  lose  breath  to 
speak  them !  and  it  is  nothing,  to  say  that  they  concern 
another  .  .  .  for  they  are  so  much  the  more  intensely 
mine,  and  of  me.     May  God  bless  you,  very  dear !  dearest. 

So  I  am  to  forget  to-day,  I  am  told  in  the  letter.  Ah! 
But  I  shall  forget  and  remember  what  I  please.  In  the 
meanwhile  I  was  surprised  while  writing  thus  to  you  this 
morning  .  .  as  a  good  deed  to  begin  with  .  .  by  Miss 
Bayley's  coming.  Remembering  the  seventh  of  May  I 
forgot  Thursday,  which  she  had  named  for  her  visit,  and 
altogether  she  took  me  by  surprise.  I  thought  it  was 
Wednesday !  She  came — and  then,  Mr.  Kenyon  came, 
.  .  and  as  they  both  went  down-stairs  together,  Mrs. 
Jameson  came  up.  Miss  Bay  ley  is  what  is  called  strong- 
minded,  and  with  all  her  feeling  for  art  and  Beauty,  talks 
of  utility  like  a  Utilitarian  of  the  highest,  and  professes  to 
receive  nothing  without  proof,  like  a  reasoner  of  the  lowest. 
She  told  me  with  a  frankness  for  which  I  did  not  like  her 
less,  that  she  was  a  materialist  of  the  strictest  order,  and 
believed  in  no  soul  and  no  future  state.  In  the  face  of 
those  conclusions,  she  said,  she  was  calm  and  resigned. 
It  is  more  than  i"  could  be,  as  I  confessed.  My  whole 
nature  would  cry  aloud  against  that  most  pitiful  result  of 
the  struggle  here — a  wrestling  only  for  the  dust,  and  not 
for  the  crown.  What  a  resistless  melancholy  would  fall 
upon  me  if  I  had  such  thoughts ! — and  what  a  dreadful  in- 
difference.    All  grief,  to  have  itself  to  end  in ! — all  joy,  to 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  137 

be  based  upon  nothingness !— all  love,  to  feel  eternal  sepa- 
ration under  and  over  it!  Dreary  and  ghastly,  it  would 
be !  I  should  not  have  strength  to  love  you,  I  think,  if  I 
had  such  a  miserable  creed.  And  for  life  itself,  .  .  would 
it  be  worth  holding  on  such  terms, — with  our  blind  Ideals 
making  mocks  and  mows  at  us  wherever  we  turned?  A 
game  to  throw  up,  this  life  would  be,  as  not  worth  playing 
to  an  end ! 

There's  a  fit  letter  for  the  seventh  of  May ! — but  why 
was  Thursday  the  seventh,  and  not  Wednesday  rather, 
which  would  have  let  me  escape  visitors?  I  thank  God 
that  I  can  look  over  the  grave  with  you,  past  the  grave,  .  . 
and  hope  to  be  worthier  of  you  there  at  least. 

Mrs.  Jameson  did  not  say  much,  being  hoarse  and  weak 
with  a  cold,  but  she  told  me  of  having  met  you  at  dinner, 
and  found  you  '  very  agreeable. '  Also,  beginning  by  a 
word  about  Professor  Longfellow,  who  has  married,  it  ap- 
pears, and  is  a  tolerably  merciful  husband  for  a  poet  .  . 
('solving  the  problem  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing,' 
said  she !)  .  .  beginning  so,  she  dropped  into  the  subject 
of  marriage  generally,  and  was  inclined  to  repropose  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu's  septennial  act  .  .  which  might 
be  a  reform  perhaps!  ....  what  do  you  think?  Have  I 
not,  altogether,  been  listening  to  improving  and  memora- 
ble discourse  on  this  seventh  of  May?  The  ninth's  will  be 
more  after  my  heart. 

I  like  Mrs.  Jameson,  mind ! — and  I  like  her  views  on 
many  subjects — exclusive  of  the  septennial  marriage  act, 
though. 

How  you  amuse  me  by  your  account  of  the  sponsor- 
ship! the  illustrious  D'Orsay  with  his  paletot  reputation, 
in  a  cleft  stick  of  Alfred  .  .  .  Tennyson!  Bunn  in  the 
distance !  A  curious  combination  it  makes  really  .  .  and 
you  read  it  like  a  vates  that  you  are ! — ■ 

So,  good  night — dearest! — I  think  of  you  behind  all 
these  passing  clouds  of  subjects,  my  poet  of  the  Lyre  and 
Crown!    Look  down  on  your  own  Ba. 


138   THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING      [May  8 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  8,  1846.] 

'Look  down  on  you ' — my  Ba?  I  would  die  for  you,  with 
triumphant  happiness,  God  knows,  at  a  signal  from  your 
hand !  But  that, — look  down, — never,  though  you  bade  me 
again  and  again,  and  in  such  words !  I  look  up, — always 
up, — my  Ba.  When  I  indulge  in  my  deepest  luxury,  I 
make  you  stand  .  .  do  you  not  know  that?  I  sit,  and  my 
Ba  chooses  to  let  me  sit,  and  stands  by, — understanding 
all  the  same  how  the  relation  really  is  between  us, — how  I 
would,  and  do,  kiss  her  feet, — my  queen's  feet! 

Do  you  feel  for  me  so,  my  love?  I  seldom  dare  to  try 
and  speak  to  you  of  your  love  for  me  .  .  my  love  I  am 
allowed  to  profess  .  .  I  could  not  steadily  (I  have  tried, 
whether  you  noticed  it  or  no,  and  could  not,)  say  aloud 
'  and  you  love  me  ' !  Because  it  is  altogether  a  blessing  of 
your  gift, — irrespective  of  my  love  to  you — however  it  may 
go  to  increase  it.  Here  are  the  words  however.  Human 
conviction  is  weak  enough,  no  doubt, — but,  when  I  forget 
these  words,  and  this  answer  of  my  heart  to  them, — I  can- 
not say  it — 

May  God  bless  you,  dearest  dearest, — my  Ba!  I  was 
at  Mrs.  Jameson's  this  morning — she  spoke  of  you  so  as 
to  make  my  heart  tremble  with  very  delight — I  never  liked 
her  so  much  .  .  I  may  say,  never  liked  her  before — by 
comparison.  She  read  me  your  three  translations, — 
clearly  feeling  their  rare  beauty;  and  now, — let  me  clap 
hands,  my  Ba,  and  ask  you  who  knows  best?  She  means 
to  print  both  versions — the  blank  verse  and  the  latter 
rhymed  one.  Of  course,  of  course !  But  she  said  so  many 
things — I  must  tell  you  to-morrow, — if  you  remind  me. 
She  felt  such  gratifications,  too,  at  your  thinking  her  etch- 
ing of  St.  Cecilia  worthy  to  hang  by  your  chair,  in  your 
sight.  Do  you  know,  Ba,  at  the  end, — a  propos  of  her 
breakfast,  I  fairly  took  her  by  both  hands,  and  shook  them 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABRETT  139 

with  a  cordiality  which  I  just  reflect,  tardily,  may  subject 
the  Literary  Character  to  a  possible  misconstruction.  '  He 
must  have  wanted  a  breakfast, '  she  will  say  ! 

I  am  going  to  the  Museum  on  Monday  with  her,  to  see 
Italian  prints.  I  like  her  very  much.  And  after  break- 
fast, Mr.  Kenyon  came  in,  and  Mr.  Bezzi — and  Mr.  K. 
means  to  make  me  go  and  see  him  next  Monday  also,  I 
believe. 

But  my  seeing,  and  hearing,  and  enjoying — Saturday 
is  my  day  for  all  that?  To-morrow — by  this  time ! — too 
great  happiness  it  is,  I  know. 

And  I,  too,  look  long  over  the  grave,  to  follow  you,  my 
own  heart's  love.  Let  Mrs.  Jameson  repeal  those  acts, — 
limit  the  seven  years  to  seven  days  or  less, — what  matters? 
If  the  seven  days  have  to  be  endured  because  of  a  law, — 
then  I  see  the  weariness  of  course — but  in  our  case,  if  a 
benevolent  Legislature  should  inform  me,  now,  that  if  I 
choose,  I  may  decline  visiting  you  to-morrow — 

.  .  Ah,  nefandum, — kiss  me,  my  own  Ba,  and  let  the 
world  legislate  and  decree  and  relieve  and  be  otherwise 
notable — so  they  let  me  be  your  own  for  ever 

E. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  May  11,  1846.] 

Dearest  when  you  use  such  words  as  '  eligible  .  .  . ' 
{investment  .  .  was  it?)  and  I  do  not  protest  seriously  and 
at  length,  it  is  through  the  very  absurdity  and  unnatural- 
ness  .  .  as  if  you  were  to  say  that  the  last  comet  was  made 
of  macaroni,  and  Arago  stood  by,  he  would  not  think  it 
worth  while  to  confute  you.  Talking  the  worldly  idiom, 
as  you  will  tell  me  you  just  meant  to  do  in  those  words, 
and  considering  the  worldly  considerations,  why  still  the 
advantage  is  with  you— I  can  do  nothing  that  I  can  see, 
but  stand  in  your  sunshine.  I  solemnly  assure  you  that 
only  the  apparent  fact  of  your  loving  me,  has  overcome  the 


140   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  11 

scruple,  which,  on  this  ground,  made  me  recoil  from  .  .  . 
Well !  there  is  no  use  now  in  talking.  But  for  you  to  talk 
of  what  is  eligible  and  ineligible  for  me,  is  too  absurd — 
indeed  it  is.  You  might  be  richer,  to  be  sure — but  /like 
it  better  as  it  is,  a  hundred  times — I  should  choose  it  to  be 
so,  if  it  were  left  to  my  choice.  In  every  other  respect, 
using  the  world's  measures,  .  .  or  the  measure  of  the 
angel  who  measured  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  .  .  you  are 
beyond  me  .  .  above  me — and  nothing  but  your  love  for 
me  could  have  brought  us  to  a  level.  My  love  for  you 
could  not  have  ivied,  even !  Now,  if  I  teaze  you  with  say- 
ing such  things  over  and  over,  it  is  the  right  punishment 
for  what  you  said  yesterday  about  '  eligible  marriages  ' — 
now,  isn't  it? 

But  your  conclusion  then  was  right.  For  if  you  were 
twice  yourself,  with  a  duchy  of  the  moon  to  boot,  it  would 
avail  nothing.  We  should  have  to  carry  all  this  under- 
ground work  on  precisely  the  same.  Miserable  it  is, 
nevertheless — only,  I  keep  my  eyes  from  that  side,  as  far 
as  I  can.  I  keep  my  eyes  on  your  face.  Yesterday  Hen- 
rietta told  me  that  Lady  Carmichael,  a  cousin  of  ours, 
met  her  at  the  Royal  Academy  and  took  her  aside  to 
'  speak  seriously  to  her '  .  .  to  observe  that  she  looked 
thin  and  worried,  and  to  urge  her  to  act  for  herself  .  .  to 
say  too,  that  Mrs.  Bay  ford,  an  old  hereditary  friend  of 
ours,  respected  by  us  all  for  her  serene,  clear-headed  views 
of  most  things, — and  'of  the  strictest  sect,'  too,  for  all 
domestic  duties,—'  did  not  like,  as  a  mother,  to  give  direct 
advice,  but  was  of  opinion  that  the  case  admitted  certainly 
and  plainly  of  the  daughter's  acting  for  herself.'  In  fact, 
it  was  a  message,  sent  under  cover  of  a  supposed  irre- 
sponsibility. Which  is  one  of  a  hundred  proofs  to  show 
how  this  case  is  considered  exceptional  among  our  family 
friends,  and  that  no  very  hard  judgment  will  be  passed  at 
the  latest.  Only,  on  other  grounds,  /shall  be  blamed  .  • 
and  perhaps  by  another  class  of  speakers.  As  for  telling 
Mr.  Kenyon,  it  is  most  unadvisable,  both  for  his  sake  and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  141 

ours.  Did  you  never  hear  him  talk  of  his  organ  of  cau- 
tion? We  should  involve  him  in  ever  so  many  fears  for  us, 
and  force  him  to  have  his  share  of  the  odium  at  last.  Papa 
would  not  speak  to  him  again  while  he  lived.  And  people 
might  say,  '  Mr  Kenyon  did  it  all.'  No — if  we  are  to  be 
selfwilled,  let  us  be  selfwilled  .  .  at  least,  let  me  !  for  you, 
of  course,  are  free  to  follow  your  judgment  in  respect  to 
your  own  friends.  And  then,  it  is  rather  a  matter  of  feeling 
with  me  after  all,  that  as  I  cannot  give  my  confidence  to 
my  father,  I  should  refuse  it  to  others.     I  feel  that  a  little. 

Henrietta  will  do  nothing,  I  think,  this  year — there  are 
considerations  of  convenience  to  prevent  it ;  and  it  is  better 
for  us  that  it  should  be  so,  and  will  not  be  worse  for  her 
in  the  end.  I  wish  that  man  were  a  little  nobler,  higher 
.  .  more  of  a  man!  He  is  amiable,  good-natured,  easy- 
tempered,  of  good  intentions  in  the  main :  but  he  eats  and 
drinks  and  sleeps,  and  shows  it  all  when  he  talks.  Very 
popular  in  his  regiment,  very  fond  of  his  mother — there  is 
good  in  him  of  course — and  for  the  rest.  .  . 

Dearest  .  .  to  compare  others  with  you,  would  be  too 
hard  upon  them.  Besides,  each  is  after  his  kind.  Yet  .  . 
as  far  as  love  goes  .  .  and  although  this  man  sincerely 
loves  my  sister,  I  do  believe,  .  .  I  admit  to  myself,  again 
and  again,  that  if  you  were  to  adopt  such  a  bearing  towards 
me,  as  he  does  to  her,  I  should  break  with  you  at  once. 
And  why  ?  Not  because  I  am  spoilt,  though  you  knit  your 
brows  and  think  so  .  .  nor  because  I  am  exacting  and 
offensible,  though  you  may  fancy  that  too.  Nor  because 
I  hold  loosely  by  you  .  .  dearest  beloved  .  .  ready  at  a 
caprice  to  fall  away.  But  because  then  I  should  know  you 
did  not  love  me  enough  to  let  you  be  happy  hereafter  with 
me  .  .  you,  who  must  love  according  to  what  you  are! 
greatly,  as  you  write  '  Lurias  ' ! 

To-morrow,  shall  you  be  at  Mr.  Kenyon's?  To-morrow 
I  shall  hear.  Nothing  has  happened  since  I  saw  you. 
May  God  bless  you. 

Your  own,  I  am. 


142   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  11 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  May  11,  1846.] 

I  am  always  telling  you,  because  always  feeling,  that  I 
can  express  nothing  of  what  goes  from  my  heart  to  you, 
my  Ba;  but  there  is  a  certain  choice  I  have  all  along  exer- 
cised, of  subjects  on  which  I  would  try  and  express  some- 
what— while  others  might  be  let  alone  with  less  disadvan- 
tage. When  we  first  met,  it  was  in  your  thought  that  I 
loved  you  only  for  your  poetry  .  .  I  think  you  thought 
that.  And  because  one  might  be  imagined  to  love  that  and 
not  you, — because  everybody  must  love  it,  indeed,  that 
is  worthy,  and  yet  needs  not  of  necessity  love  you, — yet 
might  mistake  or  determine  to  love  you  through  loving  it 
.  .  for  all  these  reasons,  there  was  not  the  immediate  de- 
mand on  me  for  a  full  expression  of  my  admiration  for 
your  intellectuality, — do  you  see?  Rather,  it  was  proper 
to  insist  as  little  as  possible  on  it,  and  speak  to  the  woman, 
Ba,  simply — and  so  I  have  tried  to  speak, — partly,  in  truth, 
because  I  love  her  best,  and  love  her  mind  by  the  light  and 
warmth  of  her  heart — reading  her  verses,  saying  '  and 
these  are  Ba's, ' — not  kissing  her  less  because  they  spoke 
the  verses.  But  it  does  not  follow  that  I  have  lost  the 
sense  of  any  delight  that  has  its  source  in  you,  my  dearest, 
dearest — however  I  may  choose  to  live  habitually  with  cer- 
tain others  in  preference.  I  would  shut  myself  up  with 
you,  and  die  to  the  world,  and  live  out  fifty  long,  long 
lives  in  bliss  through  your  sole  presence — but  it  is  no  less 
true  that  it  will  also  be  an  ineffable  pride, — something  too 
sweet  for  the  name  of  pride, — to  avow  myself,  before  any- 
one whose  good  opinion  I  am  soliciting  to  retain,  as  so  dis- 
tinguished by  you — it  is  too  sweet,  indeed, — so  I  guard 
against  it, — for  frequent  allusion  to  it,  might, — (as  I  stam- 
mer, and  make  plain  things  unintelligible)  .  .  might  cause 
you  to  misconceive  me,  which  would  be  dreadful  .  .  for 
after  all,  Ba's  head  has  given  the  crown  its  worth, — though 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  143 

a  wondrous  crown  it  is,  too!  All  this  means  .  .  the 
avowal  we  were  speaking  of,  will  be  a  heart's  pride  above 
every  other  pride  whenever  you  decide  on  making  such  an 
avowal.     You  will  understand  as  you  do  ever  your  own  R. 

On  getting  home  I  found  letters  and  letters — the  best 
being  a  summons  to  meet  Tennyson  at  Moxon's  on  Tues- 
day,— and  the  frightfullest  .  .  nay,  I  will  send  it.  Now, 
Ba,  hold  my  hand  from  the  distant  room,  tighter  than 
ever,  at  about  8  o'clock  on  Wednesday  .  .  for  I  must  go, 
I  fear — '  Unaccustomed  as  I  am  to  public  speaking '  &c. 
&c.  '  ea,  £«,  aTce^e,  <peo. '  Then  Mr.  Kenyon  writes  that  his 
friend  Commodore  Jones  is  returned  to  England  in  bad 
health  and  that  he  must  away  to  Portsmouth  and  see  him 
— so  I  do  not  go  on  Monday.  While  I  was  away  Chorley 's 
brother  (John  Chorley)  called, — having  been  put  to  the 
trouble  of  a  journey  hither  for  nothing. 

I  have  been  out  this  morning — to  church  with  my  sister 
— and  the  sun  shone  almost  oppressively, — but  now  all  is 
black  and  threatening.  How  I  send  my  heart  after  your 
possible  movements,  my  own  all-beloved !  Care  for  your- 
self, and  for  me.  But  a  few  months  more, — if  God  shall 
please.     May  He  bless  you — 

Ever  your  own 

Hail  and  rain — at  a  quarter  to  four  o'clock ! 

R.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Monday  4  o'clock. 
[Post-mark,  May  11,  1846.] 

Sweetest,  I  have  this  moment  come  from  Town  and 
Mrs.  Jameson — the  Marc-Antonio  Prints  kept  us  all  the 
morning — and  at  last  I  said  '  there  is  a  letter  for  me  at 
home  which  I  must  go  and  answer.'  And  now  I  cannot 
answer  it — but  I  can  love  you  and  say  so.  God  bless  you, 
ever  dearest.  I  have  read  your  letter  .  .  but  only  once. 
Now  I  shall  begin  my  proper  number  of  times — 

Ever  your  very  own 


144   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  12 


K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  May  12,  1846.] 

It  is  too  bad,  or  too  good,  or  something.  Almost  I 
could  reproach  you,  and  quite  would  thank  you !  .  yet  do 
not  let  it  be  so  again.  You  are  supernaturally  kind  .  . 
kindestest,  bestestest  .  .  .  and,  so,  dearestest  by  the  a 
merest  justice;  only,  to  think  of  your  hastening  home,  as 
if  you  were  under  an  obligation  to  write  to  me  in  the  face 
of  the  seven  worlds,  .  .  that  is  too  much,  and  shall  not  be 
again — now  see  that  it  shall  not.  I  seem  to  hear  the  rat- 
tling of  the  chain  all  this  distance.  And  do,  for  the  future, 
let  it  be  otherwise.  When  you  are  kept  in  London,  or  in 
any  way  hindered,  or  unwell,  .  .  in  any  case  of  the  sort, 
let  the  vow  be  kept  by  one  line,  which,  too  late  for  the  day's 
post,  may  reach  me  the  next  day, — and  I  shall  not  be  un- 
easy at  eight  o'clock,  but  wait  '  as  those  who  wait  for  the 
morning.'  In  the  meanwhile  how  I  thank  you!  The  sec- 
ond dear  letter  comes  close  in  the  footsteps  of  the  first,  as 
your  goodnesses  are  so  apt  to  do. 

Well ! — and  whatever  you  may  think  about  Wednesday, 
I  am  pleased,  and  feel  every  inclination  to  '  return  thanks  ' 
myself  in  reply  to  the  bishop  of  Lincoln.  I  send  the  letter 
back  lest  you  should  want  it.  The  worst  is  that  you  are 
likely  to  have  a  very  bad  headache  with  the  noise  and  con- 
fusion— and  the  bishop's  blessing  on  the  dramatists  of 
England,  will  not  prevent  it,  I  fear. 

Look  what  is  inside  of  this  letter — look !  I  gathered  it 
for  you  to-day  when  I  was  walking  in  the  Regent's  Park. 
Are  you  surprised?  Arabel  and  Flush  and  I  were  in  the 
carriage— and  the  sun  was  shining  with  that  green  light 
through  the  trees,  as  if  he  carried  down  with  him  the  very 
essence  of  the  leaves,  to  the  ground,  .  .  and  I  wished  so 
much  to  walk  through  a  half  open  gate  along  a  shaded 
path,  that  we  stopped  the  carriage  and  got  out  and  walked, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  145 

and  I  put  both  my  feet  on  the  grass,  .  .  which  was  the 
strangest  feeling !  .  .  and  gathered  this  laburnum  for  you. 
It  hung  quite  high  up  on  the  tree,  the  little  blossom  did, 
and  Arabel  said  that  certainly  I  could  not  reach  it — but 
you  see !  It  is  a  too  generous  return  for  all  your  flowers : 
or,  to  speak  seriously,  a  proof  that  I  thought  of  3rou  and 
wished  for  you — which  it  was  natural  to  do,  for  I  never 
enjoyed  any  of  my  excursions  as  I  did  to-day's — the  stand- 
ing under  the  trees  and  on  the  grass,  was  so  delightful. 
It  was  like  a  bit  of  that  Dreamland  which  is  your  especial 
dominion, — and  I  felt  joyful  enough  for  the  moment,  to 
look  round  for  you,  as  for  the  cause.  It  seemed  illogical, 
not  to  see  you  close  by.  And  you  were  not  far  after  all, 
if  thoughts  count  as  bringers  near.  Pearest,  we  shall 
walk  together  under  the  trees  some  day  ! 

And  all  those  strange  people  moving  about  like  phan- 
toms of  life.  How  wonderful  it  looked  to  me ! — and  only 
you,  .  .  the  idea  of  you  .  .  and  myself  seemed  to  be  real 
there !     And  Flush  a  little,  too ! — 

Ah — what  .  .  next  to  nonsense,  .  .  in  the  first  letter, 
this  morning !  So  you  think  that  I  meant  to  complain 
when  we  first  met,  of  your  '  loving  me  only  for  my  poetry  ' ! 
Which  I  did  not,  simply  because  I  did  not  believe  that  you 
loved  me  I— for  any  reason.  For  the  rest,  I  am  not  over- 
particular, I  fancy,  about  what  I  may  be  loved  for.  There 
is  no  good  reason  for  loving  me,  certainly,  and  my  earnest 
desire  (as  I  have  said  again  and  again)  is,  that  there  should 
be  by  profession  no  reason  at  all.  But  if  there  is  to  be 
any  sort  of  reason,  why  one  is  as  welcome  as  another  .  . 
you  may  love  me  for  my  shoes,  if  you  like  it  .  .  except 
that  they  wear  out.  I  thought  you  did  not  love  me  at  all 
— you  loved  out  into  the  air,  I  thought — a  love  a  priori,  as 
the  philosophers  might  say,  and  not  by  induction,  any 
wise !  Your  only  knowledge  of  me  was  by  the  poems  (or 
most  of  it) — and  what  knowledge  could  that  be,  when  I  feel 
myself  so  far  below  my  own  aspirations,  morally,  spirit- 
ually ?  So  I  thought  you  did  not  love  me  at  all — I  did  not 
Vol.  II.— 10 


146   THE  LETTERS  OP  ROBERT  BROWNING     [May  12 

believe  in  miracles  then,  nor  in  '  Divine  Legations  ' — but 
my  miracle  is  as  good  as  Constantine's,  you  may  tell  your 
bishop  on  Wednesday  when  he  has  delivered  his  charge. 

Is  it  eight  o'clock,  ox  three?  You  write  a  [figure]  which 
looks  like  both,  or  at  least  either. 

Love  me,  my  only  beloved ;  since  you  can.  May  God 
bless  you ! 

I  am  ever  and  wholly  your 

Say  hoiv  you  are.  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  12,  1846.] 

My  Ba,  your  flower  is  the  one  flower  I  have  seen,  or 
see,  or  shall  see — when  it  fades  '  I  will  bless  it  till  it  shine,' 
and  when  I  can  bless  you  no  longer  it  shall  fade  with  me 
and  my  letters  and  .  .  perhaps  .  .  my  ring.  Ba,  if  .  .  I 
was  going  to  say,  if  you  meant  to  make  me  most  exquisitely 
happy  .  .  and  you  did  surely  mean  it  .  .  well,  you  suc- 
ceed, as  you  know !  And  I  see  you  on  the  grass,  and  am 
with  you  as  you  properly  acknowledge.  And  by  this 
letter's  presence  and  testimony,  I  may  judge  you  to  be 
not  much  the  worse, — not  fatigued  .  ,  is  it  so?  Oh,  it 
was  a  good  inspiration  that  led  you  through  the  half- 
opened  gate  and  under  the  laburnum,  and,  better  still,  that 
made  you  see  us  '  one  day  walking  by  the  trees  together ' 
— when  all  I  shall  say  is, — I  hope,  in  spite  of  that  felicity 
to  remember  and  feel  this,  as  vividly  as  now. 

'  For  the  chain  you  hear  rattle '  .  .  there  comes  the 
earthly  mood  again  and  the  inspiration  goes  away  alto- 
gether !  So  you  being  Miss  Barrett  and  not  my  Ba  for  the 
moment,  I  will  give  you  none  of  my,  and  Ba's,  syren- 
island  illustrations,  but  ask  you,  what  a  fine  lady  would 
say  if  you  caught  at  her  diamond  necklace  and  cried — 
'  You  shall  wear  no  such  chains, — indeed  you  shall  not! ' 
Why  even  Flush  is  proud  of  his  corals  and  blue  beads,  you 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  147 

tell  me !  As  for  me, — being  used  to  bear  sundry  heavier 
chains  than  this  of  writing  to  you — owning  the  degradation 
of  being,  for  instance,  forced  to  respire  so  many  times  a 
minute  in  order  to  live — to  go  out  into  the  open  air  so  as  to 
continue  well — with  many  similarly  affronting  impositions 
on  a  free  spirit  .  .  on  the  whole,  I  can  very  patiently  submit 
to  write  a  letter  which  is  duly  read,  and  forgiven  for  its  im- 
perfections, and  interpreted  into  a  rationality  (sometimes) 
not  its  own,  and  then  answered  by  the  sweetest  hand  that 
ever  ministered  to  the  dearest,  dearest  Ba  that  ever  was 
imagined,  or  can  be!  Ba, — there  are  three  Syren's  Isles, 
you  know :  I  shall  infallibly  get  into  the  farthest  of  them, 
a  full  thirty  yards  from  you  and  the  tower, — so  as  to  need 

being  written  to for  the  cicale  make  such  a  noise  that 

you  will  not  be  able  to  call  to  me — which  is  as  well,  for 
you  may  .  .  that  is,  /  might — break  my  neck  by  a  sudden 
leap  on  the  needles  of  rocks  .  .  as  I  remember  the  boat- 
man told  me. 

As  for  what  you  wish  yesterday  .  .  the  mode  of  my  ex- 
pressing my  love  .  .  I  never  think  of  it,—  I  have  none — no 
system,  nor  attempt  at  such  a  thing — I  begin  and  end  by 
saying  1  love  you — whatever  comes  of  it.  There  is  one  ob- 
vious remark  to  make  however  .  .  that  unless  I  had  loved 
you  and  felt  that  every  instant  of  my  life  depended  on  you 
for  its  support  and  comfort, — I  should  never  have  dreamed 
of  what  has  been  proposed  and  accepted  .  .  Your  own 
goodness  at  the  very  beginning  would  have  rendered  that 
superfluous;  for  I  was  put  in  possession  of  your  friend- 
ship,— might  write  to  you,  and  receive  letters — might  even 
hope  to  see  you  as  often  as  anybody — would  not  this  have 
sufficed  a  reasonable  friendship?  May  not  Mr.  Kenyon  be 
your  satisfied  friend?  .  But  all  was  different — and  so 

So  I  am  blessed  now — and  can  only  bless  you.  But 
goodbye,  dearest,  till  to-morrow — and  next  day,  which  is 
ours.  At  8 — eight  I  conjecture  my  martyrdom  may  take 
place  .  .  oh,  think  of  me  and  help  me !  I  shall  feel  you, 
— as  ever.     You  forgot  the  letter  after  all  .  .  can  you  send 


148    THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING     [May  12 

it?     It  may  be  convenient  to  produce,  as  I  know  nobody  of 
them  all— terrible  it  is  altogether !     '  At  six '  the  dinner 

begins 1  shall  get  behind  my  brother  Dramatists  .  . 

and  say  very  little  about  them,  even. 

Kiss  me,  in  any  case,  of  failure,  or  success,  —  and  the 
one  will  be  forgotten,  and  the  other  doubled,  centupled — 
to  your  own — 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  13,  1846.] 

When  you  began  to  speak  of  the  islands,  the  three 
islands,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  propose  that  you 
should  live  in  one,  and  Flush  in  one,  and  I  in  the  third : 
and  almost  it  was  so,  .  .  only  that  you  took,  besides,  the 
' farthest '  for  yourself!  Observe! — always  I  write  non- 
sense, when  you  send  me  a  letter  which  moves  me  like  this, 
.  .  dearest,   .   .  my  own! 

To-day  Mrs.  Jameson  has  been  here,  and  having  left 
with  me  a  proof  about  Titian,  she  comes  again  to-morrow 
to  take  it.  I  think  her  quite  a  lovable  person  now — I  like 
her  more  and  more.  How  she  talked  of  you  to-day,  and 
called  you  the  most  charming  companion  in  the  world, 
setting  you  too  on  your  right  throne  as  '  poet  of  the  age.' 
Wouldn't  it  have  been  an  '  effect '  in  the  midst  of  all,  if  I 
had  burst  out  crjdng?  And  what  with  being  flurried, 
frightened,  and  a  little  nervous  from  not  sleeping  well  last 
night,  I  assure  you  it  was  quite  possible — but  happily,  on 
every  account,  I  escaped  that  '  dramatic  situation. '  I  wish 
.  .  no,  I  can't  wish  that  she  wouldn't  talk  of  you  as  she 
does  whenever  she  comes  here.  And  then,  to  make  it 
better,  she  told  me  how  you  had  recited  '  in  a  voice  and 
manner  as  good  as  singing, '  my  '  Catarina. '  How  are  such 
things  to  be  borne,  do  you  think,  when  people  are  not  made 
of  marble?  But  I  took  a  long  breath,  and  held  my  mask 
on  with  both  hands. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  149 

You  will  tell  me  of  the  Maro  Antonio  prints,— will  you 
not?  Remember  them  on  Thursday.  Raffael's — are  they 
not?  I  shall  expect  ever  so  much  teaching,  and  showing, 
and  explaining  .  .  I,  who  have  seen  and  heard  nothing  of 
pictures  and  music,  from  you  who  know  everything  .  .  so 
the  cicale  must  not  be  too  loud  for  that.  Did  ever  anyone 
say  to,  you  that  you  were  like  Raffael's  portrait — not  in  the 
eyes,  which  are  quite  different,  but  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
face,  the  mouth,  and  also  the  brow?  It  has  struck  me 
sometimes — and  I  had  it  on  my  lips  to-day  as  a  question 
to  Mrs.  Jameson.  I  think  I  was  mad  to-day  altogether. 
But  she  did  not  see  it — (I  mean  my  madness  .  .  not  your 
likeness !)  [and]  went  away  unconsciously. 

Here,  at  last,  is  the  letter !  Careless  that  I  was  yester- 
day! — 

And  you  take  me  to  be  too  generous  if  you  fancy  that  I 
proposed  giving  up  the  daily  letter  which  is  my  daily 
bread.  I  meant  only  that  you  should  not,  for  the  sake 
of  a  particular  post,  tire  yourself,  hurry  yourself,  .  .  do 
what  you  did  yesterday.  As  for  the  daily  letter,  I  am  Ba 
— not  Miss  Barrett.  Now,  am  I  Miss  Barrett?  am  I  not 
Ba  rather,  and  your  Ba  ?  I  should  like  to  hear  what  will 
be  heard  to-morrow.  Oh — I  should  like  to  be  under  the 
table,  or  in  a  pasty,  after  the  fashion  of  the  queen's  dwarf 
when  Elizabeth  was  queen  and  Shakespeare  poet.  Shall 
you  be  nervous,  as  /was  with  Mrs.  Jameson?  Oh  no, — 
why  should  you  be  nervous?  You  will  do  it  all  well  and 
gracefully — I  am  not  afraid  for  you.  It  is  simply  out  of 
vain-glory  that  I  wish  to  be  there !  Only  .  .  the  drama- 
tists of  England  .  .  where  in  the  world  are  they  just  now? 
Or  will  somebody  prove  ten  of  them,— because  nought  after 
one,  makes  exactly  ten?  Mr.  Home  indeed.  But  I  wish 
the  toast  had  been  '  the  poets  of  England, '  rather.  May 
God  bless  you,  any  way !  '  I  love  you  whatever  comes  of  it. ' 
Yes,  unless  sorrow  of  yours  should  come  of  it,  that  is  what 
I  like  to  hear.  Better  it  is,  than  a  thousand  praises  of 
this  thing  and  that  thing,  which  never  were  mine  .  .  alas ! 


150  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  13 

— Also,  loving  me  so,  you  can  be  made  happy  with  labur- 
num-leaves ! — Dearest — most  dear !  Dare  I  speak,  do  you 
think? 

Exactly  at  eight  to-morrow,  and  exactly  at  three  the 
next  day,  I  shall  be  with  you — being  at  any  hour 

Your  very  own. 

The  walk  did  me  no  harm.  But  you  say  nothing  of 
yourself ! 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  13,  1846.] 

Dearest,  dearest,  I  shall  be  with  you  to-morrow  and  be 
comforted — and  will  tell  you  all  about  everything.  I  am 
a  little  tired  (but  very  well,  altogether  well,  singularly  so) 
— and  I  do  feel  a  little  about  to-night's  affair,  though  you 
may  not.  You,  indeed,  to  judge  me  by  yourself!  But, 
after  all  I  do  not  greatly  care  .  .  I  can  but  get  up  and 
stammer  and  say  f  thank  you '  and  sit  down  again,  like  my 
betters, — and — as  I  say  and  say, — you  are  at  the  end  of 
everything  .  .  so  long  as  I  find  you  I  I  hoped  that  Tenny- 
son was  to  have  been  Poet-respondent — but  Moxon  says 
'  no '  .  .  and,  moreover,  that  the  Committee  had  meant 
(and  he  supposed  had  acted  upon  their  meaning)  to  offer 
me  the  choice  of  taking  either  qualification,  of  Poetry  or 
the  Drama,  as  mine  .  .  but  they  have  altered  their  mind. 
As  it  is  .  .  observe — (you  will  find  a  list  of  Stewards  in 
last  Atlienceum) — observe  that  they  are  all  Bishops  or 
Deans  or  Doctors  .  .  and  that  all  will  be  grave  and  heavy 
enough,  I  dare  say.  So  I  shall  try  and  speak  for  about 
five  minutes  on  the  advantages  of  the  Press  over  the  Stage 
as  a  medium  of  communication  of  the  Drama  .  .  and  so 
get  done,  if  Heaven  please ! 

I  saw  Tennyson  last  night — and  .  .  oh,  let  me  tell  you 
to-morrow.  Also,  Severn,  I  saw  .  .  Keats'  Severn,  who 
bought  his  own  posthumous  picture  of  Keats,  and  talked 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  151 

pleasantly  about  him  and  Shelley  (Tennyson  asked  me 
'  what  I  thought  of  Shelley ' — in  so  many  words). 
Moxon's  care  of  him, — Tennyson,  not  Severn, — is  the 
charmingest  thing  imaginable,  and  he  seems  to  need  it  all 
— being  in  truth  but  a  LONG,  hazy  kind  of  a  man,  at  least 
just  after  dinner  .  .  yet  there  is  something  '  naif '  about 
him,  too, — the  genius  you  see,  too. 

May  God  bless  you,  my  dearest  dearest, — to-morrow 
repays  for  all — 

Your  own  R. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  15,  1846.] 

The  treader  on  your  footsteps  was  Miss  Bayley,  who 
left  a  card  and  c  would  come  another  day. '  She  must  have 
seen  you  .  .  .  One  of  these  days,  ■'  scirocco '  will  be 
'  loose ' — we  may  as  well  be  prepared  for  it.  To  keep  it 
off  as  long  as  possible  is  all  that  can  be.  Bat  when  it 
comes  it  will  not  uproot  my  palm-trees,  I  think,  though  it 
should  throw  flat  the  olives. 

Papa  brought  me  some  flowers  yesterday  when  he  came 
home  .  .  and  they  went  a  little  to  my  heart  as  I  took  them. 
I  put  them  into  glasses  near  yours,  and  they  look  faded 
this  morning  nevertheless,  while  your  roses,  for  all  your 
cruelty  to  them,  are  luxuriant  in  beauty  as  if  they  had 
just  finished  steeping  themselves  in  garden-dew.  I  look 
gravely  from  one  set  of  flowers  to  the  other — I  cannot  draw 
a  glad  omen — I  wish  he  had  not  given  me  these.  Dearest, 
there  seems  little  kindness  in  teazing  you  with  such 
thoughts  .  .  but  they  come  and  I  write  them :  and  let  them 
come  ever  so  sadly,  I  do  not  for  a  moment  doubt  .  .  hesi- 
tate. One  may  falter,  where  one  does  not  fail.  And  for 
the  rest,  .  .  it  is  my  fault,  and  not  my  sorrow  rather,  that 
we  act  so?  It  is  by  choice  that  we  act  so?  If  he  had  let 
me  I  should  have  loved  him  out  of  a  heart  altogether  open 


152   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  15 

to  him.     It  is  not  my  fault  that  he  would  not  let  me.     Now 
it  is  too  late — I  am  not  his  nor  my  own,  any  more. 

This  morning  I  have  had  American  letters  of  the  kind- 
est .  .  from  Massachusetts — and  a  review  on  my  poems, 
quite  extravagant  indeed,  in  the  Methodist  Quarterly.  One 
of  these  letters  is  so  like  another,  that  I  need  only  tell  you 
of  them  .  .  written  too  by  people  .  .  Lydias  and  Richards 
.  .  never  heard  of  before  by  either  of  us.  The  review  re- 
peats the  fabulous  story  in  the  '  Spirit  of  the  Age, '  about 
unknown  tongues  and  a  seven  years  eclipse  in  total  "dark- 
ness—but I  say  to  myself  .  .  .  after  all,  the  real  myth  is 
scarcely  less  wonderful.  Il  I  have  not  all  this  knowledge 
...  I  have  you  .  .  .  which  is  greater,  better !  '  Not  less 
wonderful '  did  I  say  ?  when  it  is  the  miracle 

Oh,  these  people ! — I  am  seized  and  bound.  More  to- 
night! from 

Your  own 

Ba. 

Say  hoiv  you  are. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  15,  1846.] 

The  sun  is  warm,  and  the  day,  I  suppose,  is  fine, — but 
my  Ba  will  have  been  kept  at  home  by  the  vile  wind — most 
vile — even  I  feel  it !  So  the  spring  passes  away  without 
the  true  spring  feeling— all  the  blossoms  are  fast  going  al- 
ready— and  one's  spirits  are  affected,  I  dare  say.  Did  you 
not  think  me  intolerable  yesterday  with  my  yawning  and 
other  signs  of  fatigue  you  noticed?  Well  now — I  do  think 
a  little  is  said  by  all  that :  might  one  not  like  or  even  love 
.  .  just  short  of  true  love,  so  long  as  the  spirits  were  buoy- 
ant and  the  mind  cheerful, — and  when  the  contrary  befell, 
some  change  might  appear,  surely  ! 

The  more  I  need  you  the  more  I  love  you,  Ba — and  I 
need  you  always — in  joy,  to  make  the  joy  seem  what  it  is 
—and  in  any  melancholy  that  I  can  imagine,  more  still, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKEETT  153 

infinitely  more,  I  need  you — though  melancholy,  I  certainly 
was  not — only  tired  a  little  .  .  all  I  mean  to  say  is,  that 
at  times  when  I  could,  I  think,  shut  up  Shelley,  and  turn 
aside  from  Beethoven,  and  look  away  from  my  noble  Poli- 
doro, — my  Ba's  ring — not  to  say  the  hand — ah,  you  know, 
Ba,  what  they  are  to  me ! 

I  have  to  go  out  to-day,  to  my  sorrow — to  the  Garrick 
Club,  and  a  friend  there.  (My  sister  tells  me  we  have  to 
go  to  the  Flower-show  next  Wednesday  unless  the  day  be 
rainy.     I  shall  hear  from  Mr.  Kenyon,  I  expect.) 

Let  me  end  the  chapter  we  began  yesterday,  about 
speech-making  and  adepts  in  it  of  various  kinds,  by  telling 
you  what  my  father  made  me  laugh  by  an  account  of,  the 
other  day  .  .  only  it  should  be  really  told,  and  not  written. 
He  had  a  curiosity  to  know  how  would-be  Parliamentary 
members  canvassed  .  .  and  as  the  Chamberlain  of  the  City, 
Sir  James  Shaw,  came  into  the  Bank  for  that  purpose 
(there  being  Livery  men  there,  or  whatever  they  are  called, 
with  votes)  my  father  followed  to  hear  how  he  would  ad- 
dress people.  Sir  James,  a  gigantic  man,  went  about  as 
his  friends  directed  .  .  or  rather  pushed  and  shoved  him 
.  .  and  whenever  they  reached  an  Elector  the  whole  cortege 
stopped,  Sir  James  made  his  speech,  the  friends,  book 
and  pencil  in  hand,  recorded  the  promise  the  moment  it 
was  made,  and  forthwith  wheeled  round  their  candidate 
to  the  next  man  .  .  no  word  of  speechification  being  to  be 
wasted  once  its  object  accomplished,  since  time  pressed 
— so  now  fancy.  Friends  (to  Sir  J)  '  Mr  Snooks,  Sir 
James ! '  Sir  J.  (ivith  his  eyes  shut,  and  head  tivo  feet  above 
Snooks)  '  When  Charles  Fox  came  into  Parliament,  he 
came  into  Parliament  with  a  profusion  of  promises,  of  which 
I'll  defy  Charles  Fox's  best  friends  to  say  that  he  ever  kept 
a  single  one' — (Friends  twitch  him)— '  Thankee  Sir' — 
'  Mr  Smith. '  ■  When  Charles  Fox  came  into  Paliament 
.  .  thankee,  Sir '— '  Mr  Thompson '— '  When  Charles  Fox 
.  .  thankee ! '  &c  &c  And  so  on  from  man  to  man,  never 
getting  beyond  this  instructive  piece  of  anecdotical  history 


154  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  15 

— till  at  the  very  last  a  little  Elector,  reaching  to  the  great 
man's  elbow,  let  him  go  to  the  full  length  of  the  sentence's 
tether  from  admiration  of  such  an  orator  .  .  did  not  say 
briefly  '  yes '  or  '  no '  as  the  others  had  done.  So  Sir 
James  arrived  duly  at  .  .  '  kept  a  single  one.  Thus — if 
.  .  as  it  were  .  .  eh?  oh!'  Here  he  opened  his  eyes  with 
a  start,  missing  the  pushing  and  driving  from  his  friends 
in  the  rear — and  finding  it  was  only  this  little  man;  he 
abruptly  stopped  .  .  was  not  going  to  spend  more  elo- 
quence on  him!  There,  Ba;  you  tell  me  you  write  non- 
sense .  .  1  do  the  thing,  the  precise  thing !  But  no  more 
nonsense  because  I  am  going  to  kiss  you,  which  is  wise, 
and  love  you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul  forever,  which 
is  wiser,  and  pray  you  to  love  me,  dear,  dear  Ba,  which  is 
the  wisest!    Sweetest,  may  God  bless  you, — 

Your  very  own. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  May  16,  1846.] 

Not  even  do  you  yawn  in  vain  then,  O  you !  And  this, 
then,  is  what  Cicero  called  '  oscitans  sapientia? '  The 
argument  of  the  yawn  ought  in  fact,  to  be  conclusive. ! 

But,  dearest,  if  it  was  '  intolerable '  to  see  you  yawn 
yesterday,  still  less  supportable  was  it  to-day  when  I  had 
all  the  yawning  to  myself,  and  proved  nothing  by  it. 
Tired  I  am  beyond  y our  conceiving  of  .  .  tired!  You  saw 
how  I  broke  off  in  my  letter  to  y  ou  this  morning.  Well — 
that  was  Miss  Heaton,  who  came  yesterday  and  left  the 
packet  you  saw,  and  came  again  to-day  and  sate  here  ex- 
actly three  hours.  Now  imagine  that !  Three  hours  of  in- 
cessant restless  talking.  At  the  end  I  was  blanched,  as 
everybody  could  see,  and  Mrs.  Jameson  who  came  after- 
wards for  five  minutes  and  was  too  unwell  herself  to  stay, 
seriously  exhorted  me  not  to  exert  myself  too  much  lest  I 
should  pay  the  penalty.     And  I  had  not  been  down-stairs 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKBETT  155 

even — only  been  ground  down  in  the  talking-mill.  Arabel 
told  her  too,  before  she  came  up-stairs,  that  I  was  expect- 
ing a  friend — '  Oh  '  .  .  said  she  to  me,  '  I  shall  go  away 
directly  anyone  comes. '  And  again  presently  .  .  '  Pray 
tell  me  when  I  ought  to  go  away  ' !  (As  if  I  could  say  Go. 
She  deserved  it,  but  I  couldn't!)  And  then  .  .  'How 
good  of  you  to  let  me  sit  here  and  talk ! '  So  good  of  me, 
when  I  was  wishing  her  .  .  only  at  Leeds  in  the  High 
Street,  between  a  dissenter  and  a  churchman — anywhere 
but  opposite  to  my  eyes !  Yet  she  has  very  bright  ones, 
and  cheeks  redder  than  your  roses ;  and  she  is  kind  and 
cordial  ...  as  I  thought  in  the  anguish  of  my  soul,  when 
I  tried  to  be  grateful  to  her.  Certainly  I  should  have  been 
more  so,  if  she  had  stayed  a  little  less,  talked  a  little  less 
— it  is  awful  to  think  how  some  women  can  talk !  Happily 
she  leaves  London  to-morrow  morning,  and  will  not  be 
here  again  till  next  year,  if  then.  She  talked  biography 
too  .  .  .  ah,  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you — but  it  is  better 
to  tell  you  at  once  and  have  done  .  .  only  she  desired  me 
not  to  mention  it  .  .  only  she  little  knew  what  she  was 
doing !  You  will  not  mention  it.  She  told  me  that '  her 
informant  about  Mr.  Browning,  .  .  was  a  lady  to  whom  he 
had  been  engaged  .  .  that  there  had  been  a  very  strong  at- 
tachment on  both  sides,  but  that  everything  was  broken 
off  by  her  on  the  ground  of  religious  differences — that  it 
happened  years  ago  and  that  the  lady  was  married. '  At 
first  I  exclaimed  imprudently  enough  (but  how  could  it  be 
otherwise?)  that  it  was  not  true — but  I  caught  at  the  bridle 
in  a  minute  or  two  and  let  her  have  it  her  own  way.  Do 
not  answer  this — it  is  nonsense,  I  know — but  it  helped  to 
tire  me  with  the  rest.  Wasn't  it  a  delightful  day  for  me? 
At  the  end  of  the  three  hours,  she  threw  her  arms  round 
me  and  kissed  me  some  half  dozen  times  and  wished  me 
'  goodbye  '  till  next  year.  Wilson  found  me  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  looking  as  she  said,  '  like  a  ghost.' 
And*no  wonder!  The  '  vile  wind '  out  of  doors  was  noth- 
ing to  it. 


156   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [MfTll 

Dearest,  you  are  well?  Your  letter  says  nothing. 
Only  one  more  letter,  and  then  Monday.  Ah — it  is  the 
sweetest  of  flattery  to  say  that  you  '  need '  me — but  isn't  it 
difficult  to  understand?  Yet  while  you  even  fancy  that  you 
have  such  a  need,  you  may  be  sure  (let  Charles  Fox  break 
his  promises  ever  so !)  of  your  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  May  16,  1846.] 

Then,  dearest-dearest,  do  take  Mrs.  Jameson's  advice 
— do  take  care  of  the  results  of  this  fatigue — why  should 
you  see  any  woman  that  pleases  to  ask  to  come?  I  am 
certain  that  some  of  the  men  you  have  refused  to  admit, 
would  be  more  considerate — and  Miss  Heaton  must  be  a 
kind  of  fool  into  the  bargain  with  her  inconsiderateness 
.  .  though  that  is  the  folly's  very  self.  As  for  her  '  York- 
shire Tragedy,'  I  hold  myself  rather  aggrieved  by  it — they 
used  to  get  up  better  stories  of  Lord  Byron, — and  even  1 
told  you,  anticipatingly,  that  I  caused  that  first  wife  of 
mine  to  drown  and  hang  herself  .  .  whereas,  now,  it  turns 
out  she  did  neither,  but  bade  me  do  both  .  .  nay,  was  not 
my  wife  after  all !  I  hope  she  told  Miss  Heaton  the  story 
in  the  presence  of  the  husband  who  had  no  irreligious 
scruples.  But  enough  of  this  pure  nonsense — I  had,  by 
this  post  that  brings  me  your  last  letter,  one  from  Home 
— he  leaves  to-day  for  Ireland,  and  says  kind  things  about 
my  plays — and  unkind  things  of  Mr.  Powell  '  a  dog  he 
repudiates  for  ever.'  So  our  'clique'  is  deprived  of  yet 
another  member! 

For  me,  love, — I  am  pretty  well — but  rather  out  of 
spirits, — for  no  earthly  cause.  I  shall  take  a  walk  and  get 
better  presently— your  dear  letters  have  their  due  effect, 
al  that  effect ! 

So,  dear, — all  my  world,  my  life,  all  I  look  to  or  live 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  157 

for,  my  own  Ba — I  will  bless  you  and  bid  you  goodbye  for 
to-day — to-morrow  I  will  write  more — and  on  Monday — 
return,  my  Ba,  this  kiss  .  .  my  dearest  above  all  dear- 
ness! 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Saturday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  May  16,  1846.] 

You  shall  hear  from  me  on  this  Sunday,  though  it  can- 
not be  as  an  answer,  dearest,  to  your  letter  of  to-night. 
But  I  being  so  wretchedly  tired  last  night,  and  '  yawning  ' 
being,  to  your  mind,  so  '  intolerable, '  it  is  as  well  to  leave 
a  better  impression  with  you  than  that  .  .  though  there  is 
nothing  to  say,  and  the  east  wind  blows  on  virulently. 

The  Athenaeum  has  put  me  out  of  humour  for  the  day 
.  .  besides.  Not  a  word  of  '  Luria ' — not  a  word  of  the 
Literary  Fund  dinner,  and  a  great,  drawling  carrying  out 
of  the  '  Poetry  for  the  Million'  article  .  .  as  if  all  this  trash 
could  not  die  of  itself ! — as  if  it  were  not  dead  of  itself ! — 
That  the  critics  of  a  country  should  set  themselves  to  such 
work  .  .  is  as  if  the  Premier  of  England  took  his  official 
seat  in  the  window  to  kill  flies,  .  .  talking,  with  his  first 
finger  out,  of  '  my  administration. '  Only  flies  are  flies  and 
have  fly -life  in  them :  they  are  nobler  game  than  those. 

Mrs.  Jameson,  while  she  was  here  the  five  minutes  yes- 
terday, talked,  in  an  under-breath  to  my  under-breath  op- 
position, her  opinion  about  the  present  age.  '  That  the 
present  age  did  not,  could  not,  ought  not,  to  express  itself 
by  Art,  .  .  though  the  next  age  would. '  She  is  surpris- 
ingly wrong,  it  appears  to  me.  There  is  no  predomi- 
nant character  in  the  age,  she  says,  to  be  so  expressed! 
there  is  no  unity,  to  bear  expression. 

But  art  surely,  if  art  is  anything,  is  the  expression,  not 
of  the  characteristics  of  an  age  except  accidentally,  .  . 
essentially  it  is  the  expression  of  Humanity  in  the  individ- 
ual being — and  unless  we  are  men  no  longer,  I  cannot  con- 


158   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  16 

ceive  how  such  an  argument  as  hers  can  be  upheld  for  a 
moment.     Also  it  is  exasperating  to  hear  such  things. 

Then  I  do  not  believe,  for  one,  that  genius  in  the  arts 
is  a  mere  reflection  of  the  character  of  the  times.  Genius 
precedes  surely, — initiates.  It  is  genius  which  gives  an 
Age  its  character  and  imposes  its  own  colour  ....  But  I 
shall  not  write  any  more.  Her  paper  on  '  Titian's  House 
at  Venice, '  which  she  let  me  read  in  proof,  and  which  is 
one  of  the  essays  she  is  printing  now,  is  full  of  beauty  and 
truth,  and  I  admired  it  heartily.  Then  there  is  a  quotation 
about  the  '  calm,  cold,  beautiful  regard,'  of  '  Virgin  child 
and  saint  .  .  .  which  you  may  remember  perhaps.  I 
know  you  will  like  the  essay  and  feel  it  to  be  Venetian. 

That  you  were  feeling  the  east  wind,  beloved,  meant 
that  you  were  not  well,  though  you  have  quite  left  off  tell- 
ing me  a  word  of  yourself  lately.  And  why?  It  shall  not 
be  so  next  week, — now  shall  it?  Majr  God  bless  you.  I 
am  afraid  of  going  down-stairs,  because  of  the  double- 
knocks.  It  will  be  great  gain  to  have  the  loudest  noises 
from  the  cicale.  Except  when  somebody  else  is  noisy, — 
which  is  a  noise  I  am  always  forgetting,  just  as  if  it  were 
impossible. 

Your  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 

(Day  before  to-morrow !) 

[Post-mark,  May  18,  1846.] 

How  kind  to  write  to  me  and  help  me  through  the 
gloomy  day  with  a  light !  I  could  certainly  feel  my  way 
in  the  dark  and  reach  to-morrow  without  very  important 
stumbling,  but  now  I  go  cheerfully  on,  spite  of  a  little 
headache  and  weariness.  Need  you?  I  should  hate  life 
apart  from  you.  Knowing  what  I  say,  I  should  hate  it — 
the  life  of  my  soul  as  seen  apart  from  that  of  the  mere 
body  .  .  to  which,  to  the  necessities  of  which,  no  human 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  159 

being  ever  ministered  before,  and  which,  now  that  I  have 
known  you,  I  myself  cannot  provide  for, — or  could  not 
were  you  removed, — even  after  the  imperfect  fashion  of 
former  times.  If  you  ask  Mrs  Jameson  she  will  tell  you, 
if  she  has  thought  it  worth  remembering,  that  I  once,  two 
or  three  years  ago,  explained  to  her  that  I  could  not  be- 
lieve in  'love'  nor  understand  it, — nor  be  subject  to  it 
consequently.  I  said — '  all  you  describe  as  characteristics 
of  the  passion — I  should  expect  to  find  in  men  more  easily 
and  completely — '  now  I  know  better,  and  my  year's  life 
spent  in  this  knowledge  makes  all  before  it  look  pale  and 
all  after,  if  an  after  could  come,  look  black. 

Why  do  I  write  so?  I  am  rather  dull,  this  horrible 
day,  and  cling  to  you  the  closelier. 

All  you  write  about  Art  is  most  true.  Carlyle  has 
turned  and  forged,  reforged  on  his  anvil  that  fact  '  that  no 
age  ever  appeared  heroic  to  itself '  .  .  and  so,  worthy  of 
reproduction  in  Art  by  itself  .  .  I  thought  after  Carlyle 's 
endeavours  nobody  could  be  ignorant  of  that, — nobody 
who  was  obliged  to  seek  the  proof  of  it  out  of  his  own  ex- 
perience. The  cant  is,  that  '  an  age  of  transition '  is  the 
melancholy  thing  to  contemplate  and  delineate — whereas 
the  worst  things  of  all  to  look  back  on  are  times  of  com- 
parative standing  still,  rounded  in  their  important  com- 
pleteness. So  the  young  England  imbeciles  hold  that 
'  belief  '  is  the  admirable  point — in  what,  they  judge  com- 
paratively immaterial !  The  other  day  I  took  up  a  book 
two  centuries  old  in  which  '  glory',  '  soldiering',  '  rushing 
to  conquer  '  and  the  rest,  were  most  thoroughly  '  believed 
in  ' — and  if  by  some  miracle  the  writer  had  conceived  and 
described  some  unbeliever,  unable  to  '  rush  to  conquer  the 
Parthians  '  &c,  it  would  have  been  as  though  you  found  a 
green  bough  inside  a  truss  of  straw. 

But  you  know — 

And  I  know  one  thing,  one — but  one — I  love  you,  shall 
love  you  ever,  living  and  dying  your  own — 


160   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  19 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  May  19,  1846.] 

My  own  ever  dearest,  when  I  try  to  thank  you  for  such 
a  letter  as  yesterday's,  .  .  for  any  proof,  in  fact,  of  your 
affection,  .  .  I  cannot  speak :  but  you  know,  of  this  and 
all  things,  that  I  understand,  feel — you  must  know  it  very 
well.  There  is  only  one  thing  I  can  do  as  I  ought,  and  it 
is  to  love  you;  and  the  more  I  live,  not  '  the  less  '  but  the 
more  I  am  able  to  love  you — believe  it  of  me.  And  for  the 
less,  .  .  we  never  will  return  to  that  foolish  subject,  .  . 
but  for  the  '  less  '  you  spoke  of  when  you  said  '  you  do  not 
love  me  less?  '  .  .  .  why  I  thought  at  the  moment  and 
feeel  now,  that  it  would  be  too  late,  as  I  am,  ever,  upon 
any  possible  ground,  to  love  you  less.  If  you  loved  me. 
less  .  .  even!— or  (to  leave  that)  if  you  were  to  come  to 
me  and  say  that  you  had  murdered  a  man — why  I  may 
imagine  such  things,  you  know — but  I  cannot  imagine  the 
possibility  of  my  loving  you  less,  as  a  consequence  of  your 
failing  so !  I  am  yours  in  the  deepest  of  my  affections : — 
not  unreasonably,  certainly,  as  I  see  you  and  know  you — 
but  if  it  were  to  turn  unreasonable  .  .  I  mean,  if  you  took 
away  the  appearance  of  reasonableness  .  .  still  I  should 
be  yours  in  the  deepest  of  my  affections  .  .  it  is  too  late 
for  a  difference  there. 

Mrs.  Jameson  has  just  now  sent  me  a  proof  with  the 
'  Daughters  of  Pandarus, '  which  she  is  to  call  for  presently, 
and  therefore  I  must  come  to  an  end  with  this  note.  How 
I  shall  think  of  you  to-morrow !  And  if  it  should  be  fine, 
I  may  perhaps  drive  in  the  park  near  the  gardens  .  .  take 
my  sisters  to  the  gate  of  the  gardens,  and  feel  that  you 
are  inside !  That  will  be  something,  if  it  is  feasible.  And 
if  it  is  fine  or  not,  and  if  I  go  or  not,  I  shall  remember  our 
first  day,  the  only  day  of  my  life  which  God  blessed  vis- 
ibly to  me,  the  only  day  undimmed  with  a  cloud  .  .  my 


1846]  AND. ELIZABETH  BARRETT  161 

great  compensation-day,  which  it  was  worth  while  being 

born  for ! 

Your  very  own 

Ba. 

Oh — you  will  not  see  me  to-morrow,  remember !  I  tell 
you  only  out  of  cunning  .  .  to  win  a  thought ! 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  19,  1846.] 

With  this  day  expires  the  first  year  since  you  have 
been  yourself  to  me — putting  aside  the  anticipations,  and 
prognostications,  and  even  assurances  from  all  reasons 
short  of  absolute  sight  and  hearing, — excluding  the  five  or 
six  months  of  these,  there  remains  a  year  of  this  intimacy. 
You  accuse  me  of  talking  extravagantly  sometimes.  I  will 
be  quiet  here, — is  the  tone  too  subdued  if  I  sa}%  such  a  life 
— made-up  of  such  years — I  would  deliberately  take  rather 
than  any  other  imaginable  one  in  which  fame  and  worldly 
prosperity  and  the  love  of  the  whole  human  race  should 
combine,  excluding  '  that  of  yours — to  which  I  hearken ' 
— only  wishing  the  rest  were  there  for  a  moment  that  you 
might  see  and  know  that  I  did  turn  from  them  to  you. 
My  dearest,  inexpressibly  dearest.  How  can  I  thank 
you?  I  feel  sure  you  need  not  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  so 
perfectly  kind  and  good, — I  should  have  remained  your  own, 
gratefully,  entirely  your  own,  through  the  bare  permission 
to  love  you,  or  even  without  it — seeing  that  I  never  dreamed 
of  stipulating  at  the  beginning  for  '  a  return, '  and  '  reward, ' 
— but  I  also  believe,  joyfully,  that  no  course  but  the  course 
you  have  taken  would  have  raised  me  above  my  very  self,  as 
I  feel  on  looking  back.  I  began  by  loving  you  in  compari- 
son with  all  the  world, — now,  I  love  you,  my  Ba,  in  the 
face  of  your  past  self,  as  I  remember  it. 

All  words  are  foolish — but  I  kiss  your  feet  and  offer 
you  my  heart  and  soul,  dearest,  dearest  Ba. 
Vol.  II.— 11 


162   THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  19 

I  left  you  last  evening  without  the  usual  privilege — you 
did  not  rise,  Ba!  But, — I  don't  know  why, — I  got  ner- 
vous of  a  sudden,  it  seemed  late  and  I  remembered  the 
Drawing-room  and  its  occupants. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  May  20,  1846.] 

Do  you  remember  how,  when  poor  Abou  Hassan,  in 
the  Arabian  story,  awakens  from  sleep  in  the  Sultan's 
chamber,  to  the  sound  of  instruments  of  music,  he  is  pres- 
ently complimented  by  the  grand  vizier  on  the  royal  wis- 
dom displaj^ed  throughout  his  reign  .  .  do  you  remember? 
Because  just  as  he  listened,  do  /  listen,  when  you  talk  to 
me  about  '  the  course  I  have  taken '.../,  who  have  just 
had  the  wit  to  sit  still  in  my  chair  with  my  eyes  half  shut, 
and  dream  .  .  dream  ! — Ah,  whether  I  am  asleep  or  awake, 
what  do  I  know  .  .  even  now?  As  to  the  '  course  I  have 
taken, '  it  has  been  somewhere  among  the  stars  .  .  or  under 
the  trees  of  the  Hesperides,  at  lowest.  .  . 

Why  how  can  I  write  to  you  such  foolishness?  Rather 
I  should  be  serious,  grave,  and  keep  away  from  myths 
and  images,  and  speak  the  truth  plainly.  And  speaking 
the  truth  plainly,  I,  when  I  look  back,  dearest  beloved, 
see  that  you  have  done  for  me  everything,  instead  of  my 
doing  anything  for  you — that  you  have  lifted  me  .  .  .  Can 
I  speak  ?  Heavens ! — how  I  had  different  thoughts  of  you 
and  of  myself  and  of  the  world  and  of  life,  last  year  at  this 
hour!  The  spirits  who  look  backward  over  the  grave,  can- 
not feel  much  otherwise  from  my  feeling  as  I  look  back. 
As  to  your  thanking  me,  that  is  monstrous,  it  seems  to  me. 
It  is  the  action  of  your  own  heart  alone,  which  has  ap- 
peared to  do  you  any  good.  For  myself,  if  I  do  not  spoil 
your  life,  it  is  the  nearest  to  deserving  thanks  that  I  can 
come.  Think  what  I  was  when  you  saw  me  first  .  .  laid 
there  on  the  sofa  as  an  object  of  the  merest  compassion  I 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  163 

and  of  a  sadder  spirit  than  even  the  face  showed !  and  then 
think  of  all  your  generosity  and  persistence  in  goodness. 
Think  of  it! — shall  I  ever  cease?  Not  while  the  heart 
beats,  which  beats  for  you. 

And  now  as  the  year  has  rounded  itself  to  '  the  perfect 
round,'  I  will  speak  of  that  first  letter,  about  which  so 
many  words  were,  .  .  just  to  say,  this  time,  that  I  am 
glad  now,  yes,  glad,  .  .  as  we  were  to  have  a  miracle,  .  . 
to  have  it  so,  a  born-miracle  from  the  beginning.  I  feel 
glad,  now,  that  nothing  was  between  the  knowing  and  the 
loving  .  .  and  that  the  beloved  eyes  were  never  cold  dis- 
cerners  and  analyzers  of  me  at  any  time.  I  am  glad  and 
grateful  to  you,  my  own  altogether  dearest !  Yet  the  letter 
was  read  in  pain  and  agitation,  and  you  have  scarcely 
guessed  how  much.  I  could  not  sleep  night  after  night, — 
could  not, — and  my  fear  was  at  nights,  lest  the  feverish- 
ness  should  make  me  talk  deliriously  and  tell  the  secret 
aloud.  Judge  if  the  deeps  of  my  heart  were  not  shaken. 
From  the  first  you  had  that  power  over  me,  notwithstand- 
ing those  convictions  which  I  also  had  and  which  you 
know. 

For  it  was  not  the  character  of  the  letter  apart  from 
you,  which  shook  me, — I  could  prove  that  to  you — I  re- 
ceived and  answered  ver3r  calmly,  with  most  absolute  calm- 
ness, a  letter  of  the  kind  last  summer  .  .  knowing  in  re- 
spect to  the  writer  of  it,  (just  as  I  thought  of  you),  that  a 
moment's  enthusiasm  had  carried  him  a  good  way  past  his 
discretion.  I  am  sure  that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with 
my  way  of  answering  his  letter  .  .  as  I  was  myself.  But 
you  .  .  you  .  .  I  could  not  escape  so  from  you.  You  were 
stronger  than  I,  from  the  beginning,  and  I  felt  the  mastery 
in  you  by  the  first  word  and  first  look. 

Dearest  and  most  generous.  No  man  was  ever  like 
you,  I  know !  May  God  keep  me  from  laying  a  blot  on 
one  day  of  yours ! — on  one  hour !  and  rather  blot  out  mine ! 

For  my  life,  it  is  yours,  as  this  year  has  been  yours. 
But  how  can  it  make  you  happy,  such  a  thing  as  my  life? 


164   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  20 

There,  I  wonder  still.     It  never  made  me  happy,  without 
you!— 

Your  very  own 
Ba. 

Mrs.  Jameson  was  here  to-day  and  brought  a  message 
from  Mr.  Kenyon,  who  comes  to-morrow  at  one.  The  sun 
does  not  promise  to  come  besides — does  he? 

Mrs.  Jameson  goes  to  Brighton  on  Thursday,  and  re- 
turns in  a  day  or  two  to  spend  another  month  or  six  weeks 
in  town,  changing  her  lodgings. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  20,  1846.] 

My  Ba,  I  can  just  kneel  down  to  you  and  be  kissed, — 
I  cannot  do  more,  nor  speak,  nor  thank  you — and  I  seem 
to  have  no  more  chance  of  getting  new  love  to  give  you, — 
all  is  given, — so  I  have  said  before,  and  must  keep  saying 
now — all  of  me  is  your  very  own. 

My  sister  (whose  engagement,  and  not  mine,  this  was) 
decides  to  act  according  to  the  letter  of  Mr.  Kenyon 's  kind 
instructions,  and  keeps  at  home  on  account  of  the  rain. 
She  is  very  subject  to  colds  and  sore-throat  which  the  least 
dampness  underfoot  is  sure  to  produce  in  her.  So  I  am 
not  near  you!  You  would  not  go,  however, — I  think, 
would  not  go, — to  the  Park  gate  as  you  conditionally  prom- 
ised— I  do  not,  therefore,  miss  my  flower-show,  my  '  rose 
tree  that  bareth  seven  times  seven. '  But  the  other  chance 
which  your  last  letter  apprises  me  of, — the  visit  of  Mr. 
Kenyon, — which,  by  going  in  time  to  him,  I  might  per- 
haps make  my  own  too — that,  on  a  second  thought,  I  deter- 
mine to  forego  .  .  because  it  jeopardizes  my  Saturday, 
which  will  be  worth  so  many,  many  such  visits, — does  it 
not?  There  is  no  precedent  in  our  golden  year  for  three 
visits  taking  place  in  a  single  week — not  even  in  that  end 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  165 

of  October  when  all  the  doubt  was  about  the  voyage— how 
I  remember ! 

I  shall  be  more  with  you  than  if  in  the  presence  of  peo- 
ple before  whom  I  may  not  say  '  Miss  Barrett '  with  impu- 
nity while  professing  to  talk  of  Miss — I  forget  who !  But 
'  more  with  you  '  I  who  am  always  with  you ! 

Always  with  you  in  the  spirit,  always  yearning  to  be 
with  you  in  the  body, — always,  when  with  you,  praying, 
as  for  the  happiest  of  fortunes,  that  I  may  remain  with 
you  for  ever.     So  may  it  be,  prays  your 

own,  own  E. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Wednesday,  May  20. 

Was  it  very  wrong  of  me  that  never  did  I  once  think  of 
the  possibility  of  your  coming  here  with  Mr.  Kenyon? 
Never  once  had  I  the  thought  of  it.  If  I  had,  I  should 
have  put  it  away  by  saying  aloud  'Don't  come; '  because 
as  you  say,  it  would  have  prevented  Saturday's  coming, 
the  coming  to-day  would,  .  .  and  also,  as  you  do  not  say, 
it  would  have  been  infinitely  hard  for  me  to  meet  you  and 
Mr.  Kenyon  in  one  battalion.  Oh  no,  no !  The  gods  fore- 
fend  that  you  should  come  in  that  way  !  It  was  bad  enough 
as  it  was,  to-day,  when,  while  he  sate  here  his  ten  minutes, 
(first  showing  me  a  sonnet  from  America,  which  began 
1  Daughter  of  Grecian  Genius ! ')  he  turned  those  horrible 
spectacles  full  on  me  and  asked,  '  Does  Mrs.  Jameson  know 
that  Mr.  Browning  comes  here?  '  '  No,'  said  I, — suddenly 
abashed,  though  I  had  borne  the  sonnet  like  a  hero.  '  Well, 
then !  I  advise  you  to  give  directions  to  the  servants  that 
when  she  or  anyone  else  asks  for  you,  they  should  not  say 
Mr.  Browning  is  with  you, — as  they  said  the  other  day  to 
Miss  Bayley  who  told  me  of  it.'  Now,  wasn't  that  pleas- 
ant to  hear?  I  thanked  him  for  his  advice,  and  felt  as  un- 
comfortable as  was  well  possible — and  am,  at  this  moment, 
a  little  in  doubt  how  he  was  thinking  while  he  spoke. 


166   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  20 

Perhaps  after  the  fashion  of  my  sisters,  when  they  cry  out 
'  Such  a  state  of  things  never  was  heard  of  before ! '  Not 
that  they  have  uttered  one  word  of  opposition  .  .  not,  from 
the.  first  they  knew,  .  .  understand ! — but  that  they  are 
frightened  at  what  may  be  said  by  people  who  take  for 
granted  that  we  are  strangers,  you  and  I,  to  one  another. 
Ah ! — a  little  more,  a  little  less  .  .  of  what  consequence 
is  it? 

Such  a  day,  to-day  ! — it  was  finer  last  year  I  remember ! 
and  Tuesday,  instead  of  Wednesday !  Your  sister  was 
right,  very  right — though  mine  went — but  the  distance  was 
less,  with  us.  A  party  of  twelve  went  from  this  house — 
'  among  us  but  not  of  us. '  For  my  part,  I  have  not  stirred 
from  my  room  of  course — the  carriage  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. And,  if  you  please,  I  never  'promised '  to  be  at  the 
park  gate— oh  indeed,  I  never  meditated  seeing  you  even 
from  afar — I  thought  only  that  I  should  hear  a  little  dis- 
tant music  and  remember  that,  where  it  sounded,  you  were, 
that  was  all,  .  .  and  too  much,  the  stars  made  out,  and  so 
drove  down  the  clouds. 

Poor  Mr.  Kenyon  was  grave — depressed  about  his 
friend,  who  is  in  a  desperate  state — dying  in  fact.  He 
returns  to  Portsmouth  to-morrow  to  be  with  him  till  the 
change  comes. 

Dearest,  how  are  you  ?  Never  now  will  you  condescend 
to  say  how  you  are.  Which  is  not  to  be  allowed  in  this 
second  year  of  our  reign.  I  am  very  well.  Yesterday  I 
heard  some  delightful  matrimonial  details  of  an  '  estab- 
lishment' in  Regent's  Park,  quite  like  an  old  pastoral  in 
the  quickness  of  the  repartee.  '  I  hate  you  ' —  '  I  abhor 
you'— 'I  never  liked  you'- — '  I  always  detested  you.'  A 
cup  and  saucer  thrown  bodily,  here,  by  the  lady !  On 
which  the  gentleman  upsets  her,  .  .  chair  and  all,  .  .  flat 
on  the  floor.  The  witness,  who  is  a  friend  of  mine,  gets 
frightened  and  begins  to  cry.  She  was  invited  to  the  house 
to  be  godmother  to  their  child,  and  now  she  is  pressed  to 
stay  longer  to  witness  the  articles  of  separation. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  167 

Oh,  I  suppose  such  things  are  common  enough ! — But 
what  is  remarkable  here,  is  the  fact  that  neither  party  is  a 
poet,  by  the  remotest  courtesy. 
Goodnight,  dear  dearest — 

I  am  your 
Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  May  21,  1846.] 

Just  as  I  write,  the  weather  is  a  little  more  proper  for 
this  '  the  blest  ascension-day  of  the  cheerful  month  of 
May  ' :  may  you  not  go  out  therefore,  my  Ba?  Or  down- 
stairs, at  all  events.  We  were  sorry,  Sarianna  and  I,  to 
see  the  bright  afternoon  yesterday  .  .  we  ought  to  have 
gone,  perhaps — but  Mr.  Kenyon  is  good  and  will  under- 
stand; spite  of  the  spectacles.  But  what  sonnet  is  that, 
you  perverse  Ba,  of  which  you  give  me  the  two  or  three 
words, — in  print, — how,  where?  And  if  I  do  not  request 
and  request  I  shall  be  sure  to  hear  nothing  of  that  Ameri- 
can review  again, — so,  I  do  request,  Ba! 

Last  night  brought  Dickens'  '  Pictures  from  Italy  ' — 
which  I  read  this  morning.  He  seems  to  have  expended 
his  power  on  the  least  interesting  places, — and  then  gone 
on  hurriedly,  seeing  or  describing  less  and  less,  till  at  last 
the  mere  names  of  places  do  duty  for  pictures  of  them,  and 
at  Naples  he  fairly  gives  it  up  .  .  the  Vesuvius'  journey 
excepted.  But  the  book  is  readable  and  clever — shall  I 
bring  it? — (or  next  week  when  everybody  here  has  done 
with  it.) 

I  know,  dearest,  you  did  not  promise  me  that  beatific 
vision  by  the  gate — but  was  not  enough  said  to  justify  me 
in  waiting  for  you  there?  Indeed,  yes — only  the  rain  and 
wind  seemed  to  forbid  you;  as  they  did.  Were  your  sis- 
ters pleased?  I  am  not  sure  I  should  have  been  glad  to 
meet  them  so — I  could  not  have  left  my  sister  (whom  no- 
body would  have  known) — and  then,  with  that  unspoken 


168   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBEBT  BBOWNLTSTG    [May  21 

secret  between  us.  Also  I  please  myself  by  hoping  that 
Mr.  Kenyon  was  only  relieved  of  a  great  trouble  and  an- 
noyance in  the  present  state  of  his  anxieties  by  our  keep- 
ing away.  Poor  Captain  Jones— really  a  fine,  manly,  noble 
fellow — I  am  heartily  sorry.  As  for  me,  since  Ba  asks,  I 
am  pretty  well, — much  better  in  some  points,  and  no  worse 
in  the  rest — all  is  right  but  the  little  sound  in  the  head 
which  will  be  intrusive — but  I  must  walk  it  away  presently, 
or  think  it  away  at  worst. 

For,  dearest,  dearest  Ba,  I  can  cure  all  pains  at  once 
with  you  to  think  of,  and  to  love,  and  to  bless.     So,  bless 


you 


Your  R. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  May  22,  1846.] 

Dearest,  when  your  letter  came  I  was  cutting  open  the 
leaves  of  Dickens'  '  Letters  from  Italy  '  which  Papa  had 
brought  in — so  I  am  glad  to  have  your  thoughts  of  the 
book  to  begin  with.  Before  your  letter  came  I  had  sent 
you  the  review,  as  you  will  find.  What  changes,  what 
changes !  And  the  sonnet  was  purely  manuscript,  and  for 
the  good  of  the  world  should  remain  so.  Oh — you  cannot 
care  for  all  this  trash — such  trash !  Why  I  had  a  manu- 
script sonnet  sent  to  me  last  autumn  by  '  person  or  persons 
unknown, '  ...  'To  EBB  on  her  departure  from  England 
to  Pisa.'  Can  you  fancy  that  melodious  piece  of  gossip- 
ping?  Then  a  lady  of  the  city,  famous,  I  believe,  for  hab- 
erdashery, used  to  address  all  her  poems  to  me — which 
really  was  original  .  .  for  she  would  write  five  or  six 
'  poems  '  on  an  evening,  and  sweep  them  up  and  send  them 
to  me  once  a  fortnight,  upon  faith,  hope  and  charity,  sea- 
weed and  moonshine,  cornlaws  and  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  and  take  me  for  her  standing  muse,  properly  thoiCd 
and  thee'd  all  through.     What  a  good  vengeance  it  would  be 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  169 

upon  your  unjust  charges,  if  I  set  you  to  read  a  volume  or 
two  of  those  '  poems  '  .  .  .  which  all  went  into  the  fire — 
so  you  need  not  be  frightened. 

And  to-day  I  had  a  rose-tree  sent  to  me  by  somebody 
who  has  laid  close  siege  to  me  this  long  while,  and  whom 
I  have  escaped  hitherto  .  .  but  who  has  encamped,  she 
says,  '  till  July  '  in  16  Wimpole  Street.  She  writes  too 
on  her  card  .  .  '  When  are  you  going  to  Italy  ?  ' 

Ah !  you,  who  blame  me  (half  blame  me)  for  '  seeing 
women, '  do  not  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  help  it  some- 
times, without  being  in  appeaance  ungrateful  and  almost 
brutal.  Just  because  I  am  unwell,  they  teaze  me  more,  I 
believe.  Now  that  Miss  Heaton  .  .  oh,  I  need  not  go 
back,  but  it  was  not  of  my  choice,  be  sure.  You  being  a 
man  are  different, — and  perhaps  you  make  people  afraid 
and  keep  them  off.  They  do  not  thrust  their  hands  through 
the  bars  where  the  lion  is,  as  they  do  with  the  giraffe. 
Once  I  had  this  proposition — '  If  we  mayn't  come  in,  will 
you  stand  wp  at  the  window  that  ive  may  see ?  '     Now ! — And 

there's  the  essence  of  at    least   ten   MS.  sonnets! so 

don't  complain  any  more. 

As  for  Mr.  Kenyon,  he  had  his  c  collation, '  I  under- 
stand— and  he  said  that  he  was  expecting  Mrs.  Jameson 
and  sundries — but  he  referred  to  some  '  friends  from  the 
country  who  would  not  be  so  mad  as  to  come, '  and  whom 
I  knew  to  be  yourselves.  You  were  quite,  quite  right  not 
to  come.  To-day  you  are  right  too  .  .  in  thinking  that 
I — was  out.  I  was  in  the  park  nearly  an  hour,  Arabel  and 
Flush  and  I :  and  perhaps  if  to-morrow  should  be  fine,  I 
may  walk  in  the  street ;  so  think  of  me  and  help  me.  This 
is  my  last  letter  before  I  see  you  again,  dear  dearest. 
Oh — but  I  heard  yesterday  .  .  and  it  was  not  a  tradition  of 
the  elders  this  time  .  .  it  was  '  vivid  in  the  pages  of  con- 
temporary history  '  ...  in  fact  one  of  my  brothers  heard  it 
at  the  Flower  Show  and  brought  it  home  as  the  newest 
news,  .  .  that  '  Mr.  Browning  is  to  be  married  imme- 
diately to  Miss  Campbell. '     The  tellers  of  the  news  were 


170   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Mat  22 

'  intimate  friends '  of  yours,  they  said,  and  knew  it  from 
the  highest  authority — 

Laugh! — Why  should  not  they  talk,  being  women? 
My  brother  did  not  tell  me,  but  he  told  it  down-stairs — and 
Arabel  was  amused,  she  said,  at  some  of  the  faces  round. 
At  that  turn  of  the  road  they  lost  the  track  of  the  hare. 
Not  an  observation  was  made  by  anybody. 

May  God  bless  you — Think  of  me.     I  am  ever  and  ever 

Your  own 


Ba. 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B> 


Thursday. 

This  is  not  to  be  called  a  letter,  please  to  understand, 
because  to  write  a  letter  to  you  once  a  day  is  enough  in 
all  reason.  But  I  want  to  send  you  the  review  you  asked 
for  at  the  same  time  with  the  drawings  which  I  kept  too 
long  I  thought  months  ago,- — but  I  have  looked  over  them 
again  and  again.  Then  there  is  the  book  on  Junius — and 
lastly,  the  song  which  I  want  you  to  have  .  .  the  '  Toll 
Slowly  ' — that  is  my  gift  to  you,  for  as  much  as  it  is  worth, 
and  not  to  be  sent  back  to  me  if  you  please.  As  for  the 
Notes  on  Naples,  I  shall  keep  them  for  the  present,  having 
need  to  study  about  Amain . 

Now  I  am  going  out  in  the  carriage,  and  shall  drive 
round  the  park  perhaps.  You  will  not  think  much  of  the 
music — but  it  being  the  first  music  I  had  heard  for  years 
and  years,  and  in  itself  so  overwhelmingly  melancholy,  it 
affected  me  so  that  I  should  scarcely  hear  it  to  the  end.  I 
went  down-stairs  on  purpose  to  hear  it  and  be  able  to 
thank   the  composer  rightly.     But  she  has  done  better 

things,  I  am  sure. 

Your  own 

Ba. 

Observe — I  disobey  in  nothing  by  sending  this  parcel. 
There  is  too  much  for  you  to  carry.  Don't  forget  to  bring 
me  my  Statesmen  which  is  a  lawful  burden. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  171 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B, 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  22,  1846.  ] 

I  have  a  great  mind  to  retract  .  .  I  do  retract  alto- 
gether whatever  I  said  the  other  day  in  explanation  of  Miss 
Heaton's  story.  I  make  no  doubt,  now,  it  was  a  pure 
dream  to  which  my  over-scrupulousness  of  conscience 
gave  a  local  habitation  and  name  both,  through  the  favour- 
able dimness  and  illusion  of  '  a  good  many  j^ears  ago  ' — 
because  this  last  charge  about  '  Miss  Campbell ' — briefly — 
I  never  in  my  life  saw,  to  my  knowledge,  a  woman  of  that 
name — nor  can  there  be  any  woman  of  any  other  name 
from  my  acquaintance  with  whom  the  merest  misunder- 
standing in  the  world  could  possibly  arise  to  a  third  per- 
son .  .  I  mean,  that  it  must  be  a  simple  falsehood  and 
not  gossip  or  distortion  of  fact,  as  I  supposed  in  the  other 
case.  I  told  you  of  the  one  instance  where  such  distor- 
tion might  take  i^lace, — (Miss  Ha  worth,  to  avoid  mistake). 
This  charge  after  the  other  .  .  I  will  tell  you  of  what  it 
reminds  me — in  my  early  boyhood  I  had  a  habit  of  calling 
people  '  fools, '  with  as  little  reverence  as  could  be,  .  .  and 
it  used  to  be  solemnly  represented  to  me  after  such  offences 
that  'whoso  calleth  his  brother  "  fool,"  is  in  danger  &c. 
for  he  hath  committed  murder  in  his  heart  already  '  &c.  in 
short,— there  was  no  help  for  it, — I  stood  there  a  convicted 
murderer  .  .  to  which  I  was  forced  penitently  to  agree  .  . 
Here  is  Miss  Heaton's  charge  and  my  confession.  Now, 
let  a  policeman  come  here  presently  to  ask  what  I  know 
about  the  '  Deptford  Murder '  or  the  '  Marshalsea  Mas- 
sacre ' — and  you  will  have  my  '  intimate  friend's  '  charge. 
By  the  way,  did  your  brother  overhear  this,  or  was  it 
spoken  to  someone  in  his  company,  or  is  my  friend  his 
acquaintance  also?  Because  in  either  of  the  latter  cases  I 
can  interfere  easily.  (There  is  a  Mr.  Browning — Henry 
I  think — living  in,  or  near  the  Regent's  Park.)     At  all 


172    THE  LETTEES  OE  BOBEET  BBOWNING    [May  22 

events,  please  say  that  I  know  no  such  person,  nor  ever 
knew, — that  the  whole  is  a  pure  falsehood — (and  I  only 
use  so  mild  a  word  because  I  write  to  you,  and  because  on 
reading  the  letter  again  I  see  the  speakers  were  women). 

It  is  a,  fact  that  I  have  made  myself  almost  ridiculous 
by  a  kind  of  male  prudery  with  respect  to  '  young  ladies  ' 
.  .  that  I  have  seemed  to  imply — -  If  I  gave  you  the  least 
encouragement  something  would  be  sure  to  follow.'  In 
fact  never  seeing  any  attractiveness  in  the  class,  I  was  very 
little  inclined  to  get  involved  in  troubles  and  troubles  for 
nothing  at  all.  And  as  for  marrying  .  .  that  is  a  point  on 
.which  I  have  certainly  not  chosen  to  dilate  before  you,  nor 
shall  I  now  dilate  on  it. 

Well,  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,  that  remedies  every- 
thing. And  that  is  your  way  of  letting  me  see  the  Keview, 
— you  send  it !  Not  that  it  has  arrived  yet.  Dear  Ba,  how 
ever  good  you  are ! 

All  about  the  lady  enthusiasts  makes  me  laugh — don't 
think  I  fail  of  the  proper  respect  to  them,  however — it 
is  only  once  in  a  week  that  one  sees  a  real  painted  Em- 
peror settle  on  a  flower,  and  then  perhaps  for  a  few  min- 
utes— while  at  all  times,  if  you  look,  you  will  find  a  good 
half  dozen  of  earnest  yet  sleepy  drones  living  there,  work- 
ing away  at  the  sweet, — after  all,  these  get  the  most  out  of 
the  flower. 

Did  you  really  go  out  yesterday  ?  I  was  not  sure,  for 
the  wind  was  Easterly — but  it  appears  to  have  done  you 
no  harm,- — you  may  '  go  into  the  street'  to-day— I  am 
most  happy, — most  happy — and  always  entirely  happy  in 
you, — in  thinking  of  you,  and  hoping, — my  life  is  in  you 
now — 

Bless  you,  dearest — I  am  your  own. 

2  o'clock,  the  parcel  arrives  .  .  thank  you,  best  of  Ba's! 
I  will  read  and  tell  you — (only  what  on  earth  do  you  mean 
by  sending  back  those  sketches?) 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  173 


B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Sunday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  May  25,  1846.] 

My  own  Ba  is  entreated  to  observe,  that  when  she  sends 
me  reviews  about  herself,  and  songs  by  herself,  and  a  make- 
weight book  about  '  Junius  '  happens  to  be  sent  also  .  .  I 
do  not  ordinarily  plunge  into  the  Junius-discussion  at 
once — perhaps  from  having  made  up  my  mind  that  the 
Author  is  Miss  Campbell: — at  all  events,  while  the  review 
was  read  and  re-read  and  the  music  done  justice  and  in- 
justice to,  the  Junius  was  opened  for  the  first  time  this 
morning,  at  eight  of  the  clock,  and  Ba's  letter  which  lay 
between  pages  16  and  17,  '  came  to  hand  ' — was  brought  to 
me  by  my  mother,  from  my  father !  but  for  whose  lucky 
inspiration  of  curiosity  the  said  note  had  perhaps  lain 
shut  in  till  the  book's  secret  was  found  out  .  .  certainly 
/  should  never  have  touched  the  book  before  then !  And 
from  this  note,  duly  studied,  I  learn  that  yesterday  I  must 
have  appeared  to  Ba  touched  by  a  general  mental  paraly- 
sis— inasmuch  as  I  was  surprised,  over  and  above  the  joy- 
fulness,  to  hear  that  she  was  in  the  Park  on  Thursday,  as 
well  as  Friday  .  .  (oh,  I  know  the  letter  I  did  receive  men- 
tioned it,  but  it  seems  as  if  one  of  the  two  excursions  were 
unrecorded) — and  seeing  that  I  enquired  whether  Ba  had 
heard  with  her  own  ears  the  song  .  .  and  altogether  omit- 
ted thanking  her  for  the  gift  of  it :  and  lastly,  brought  no 
Statesmen,  even  on  Ba's  request!  Of  all  which  matters  I 
ought  to  have  been  made  acquainted  by  the  note:  what 
must  you  think  of  me,  you  Ba;  dearest-dearest,  that  ex- 
pect me  to  know  the  face  through  the  bonnet,  and  the  letter 
through  the  book  covers — (Ba  sitting  in  the  Bookseller's 
shop  was  a  type,  I  see!).  What  did  you  think  of  me  yes- 
terday, I  want  to  know? 

Well,  and  now  my  letter  does  come  I  thank  you —  (for 
all  the  trouble  this  precedent  will  give  me — next  time  a 


174   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  25 

parcel  comes — of  poking  into  all  impossible  places  to  see 
and  to  see !)  You  are  the  dearest,  dearest,  impossibly 
dear  Ba  that  heart  ever  adored, 

'  And  the  roses  which  thou  strowest, 
All  the  cheerful  way  thou  goest, 
Would  direct  to  follow  thee, ' 

as  Shirley  sings — and  every  now  and  then  the  full  sense  of 
the  sweetness  collects  itself  and  overcomes  me  entirely,  as 
now,  on  the  occasion  of  this  note  that  I  find;  I  am  blessed 
by  you  in  the  hundred  unspeakable  ways— but  were  it  only 
for  this  and  similar  pure  kindness,  I  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
give  you  my  life  could  it  profit  you !  Here  ought  I,  by 
every  law  and  right  and  propriety  .  .  ask  Miss  Campbell ! 
.  .  to  be  ministering  to  you,  caring  for  j^ou ;  and  .  .  oh, 
Ba,  do  please,  please,  throw  a  coffee  cup  at  me ! — (giving 
some  grounds  for  complaint!) — and  after  it  the  soucoupe 
('  glaring  with  saucer  eyes  ') — and  see  what  you  shall  see, 
and  hear  what  you  shall  hear !  You  '  strongest  woman 
that  has  written  yet ' !  Have  they  found  that  out?  /know 
it,  I  think,  by  this !  So  I  will  go  and  think  over  it  in  the 
garden,  and  tell  you  more  in  the  afternoon. 

12  o'clock! — What  strange  weather! — but  pleasant,  I 
think — you  have  been  out,  or  will  go  out,  perhaps.  Tell 
me  all,  dearest,  and  how  you  feel  after  it.  To-morrow  I 
will  send  you  the  Review  and  some  of  the  other  books  you 
have  spoken  of  from  time  to  time — but,  I  almost  dare  to 
keep  the  Statesmen,  spite  of  your  positive  request.  Why, 
dear,  want  to  see  what  I  desire  to  forget  altogether?  So 
my  other  poems,  '  Sordello '  &c—  I  most  unaffectedly 
shudder  at  the  notion  of  your  reading  them,  as  I  said  yes- 
terday. My  poetry  is  far  from  the  '  completest  expression 
of  my  being ' — I  hate  to  refer  to  it,  or  I  could  tell  you 
why,  wherefore,  .  .  prove  how  imperfect  (for  a  mild  word), 
how  unsatisfactory  it  must  of  necessity  be.  Still,  I  should 
not  so  much  object,  if,  such  as  it  is,  it  were  the  best,  the 
flower  of  my  life  .  .  but  that  is  all  to  come,  and  through 
you,  mainly,  or  more  certainly.     So  wilJ  it  not  be  better 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  175 

to  let  me  write  one  last  poem  this  summer, — quite  easily, 
stringing  every  day's  thoughts  instead  of  letting  them  fall, — 
and  laying  them  at  the  dear  feet  at  the  summer's  end  for 
a  memorial?  I  have  been  almost  determining  to  do  this, 
or  try  to  do  it,  as  I  walked  in  the  garden  just  now.  A 
poem  to  publish  or  not  to  publish ;  but  a  proper  introduc- 
tion to  the  afterwork.  What  do  you  think,  my  Ba,  my 
dearest  siren,  and  muse,  and  Mistress,  and  .  .  something 
beyond  all,  above  all  and  better  .  .  shall  I  do  this  ?  And 
what  are  you  studying  about  Amalfi,  my  Ba?  Will  you 
please  keep  that  Naples'  Note-book  till  I  ask  for  it — at 
Amalfi.  Till  holy  church  incorporate  two  in  one;  and  I 
take  the  degree  of  my  aspiration.  BA  B&.  B.A. — in  earnest 
of  which,  kiss  me  dear,  'earnest,  most  earnest  of  poets,' 
and  let  me  kiss  you  as  I  do  .  .  loving  you  as  I  love  you. 
Bless  you,  best  and  dearest. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  May  25,  1846.] 

When  you  came  yesterday  I  had  scarcely  done  my 
grumbling  over  the  Athenaeum,  which  really  seems  to  me 
to  select  its  subjects  from  the  things  least  likely  to  interest 
and  elevate.  It  goes  on  its  own  level  perhaps — but  to  call 
itself  a  Journal  of  Art  and  Literature  afterwards,  is  too 
much  to  bear  patiently  when  one  turns  it  over  and  consid- 
ers. Lady  Hester  Stanhope's  physician,  antiquities  of  the 
mayors  of  London,  stories  re-collected  from  the  magazines 
by  Signor  Marcotti — and  this  is  literature  .  .  art !  Without 
thinking  of  '  Luria, '  it  is  natural  and  righteous  to  be  angry 
even  after  the  sun  has  gone  down.  These  are  your  teach- 
ers, O  Israel !  Mr.  Dilke  may  well  fly  to  the  Daily  JVeivs 
for  congenial  occupation  and  leave  literature  behind  him, 
and  nobody  hang  on  the  wheels  of  his  chariot,  crying, 
•  Come  back,  Mr.  Dilke. ' 

Talking  of  chariots,  George  met  you,  he  said,  yester- 
day, wheeling  down  Oxford  Street,   .   .  (this  he  told  me 


176   THE  LETTERS  OP  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  25 

when  lie  came  in  .  .)  going  as  fast  as  an  express  train,  and 
far  too  fast,  of  course,  either  to  recognize  or  be  recognized. 

Oh — I  forgot  to  tell  you  one  thing  about  the  review  in 
the  Hethodist  Quarterly.  You  observe  there  some  very 
absurd  remarks  about  Tennyson — but,  just  there,  is  an  ex- 
tract from  the  '  Spirit  of  the  Age, '  about  his  '  coming  out 
of  himself  as  the  nightingale  from  under  the  leaves, '  .  . 
you  see  that  ?  Well  .  .  it  is  curious  that  precisely  what 
is  quoted  there,  is  some  of  my  writing,  when  I  contributed 
to  Mr.  Home's  book.  It  amused  me  to  recognize  it,  (as 
you  did  not  George)  .  .  but  I  was  vexed  too  at  the  foolish 
deduction,  because.  .  .  . 

In  the  midst  I  had  to  hold  my  Sunday-levee,  when  for 
the  only  day  in  the  week  and  for  one  half  hour  I  have  to 
see  all  my  brothers  and  sisters  at  once:  on  the  week  days, 
one  being  in  one  place  and  one  in  another,  and  the  visits 
to  me  only  coming  by  twos  and  threes.  Well,  and  Alfred, 
who  never  had  said  a  word  to  me  before,  gave  me  the  op- 
portunity of  saying  '  no,  no,  it  is  not  true' — followed  hard 
by  a  remark  from  somebody  else,  that  '  of  course  Ba  must 
know,  as  she  and  Mr.  Browning  are  such  very  intimate 
friends,'  and  a  good  deal  of  laughter  on  all  sides:  on 
which,  without  any  transition  and  with  an  exceeding  im- 
pertinence, Alfred  threw  himself  down  on  the  sofa  and 
declared  that  he  felt  inclined  to  be  very  ill,  .  .  for  that 
then  perhaps  (such  things  being  heard  of)  some  young 
lady  might  come  to  visit  him,  to  talk  sympathetically  on 
the  broad  and  narrow  gauge !  Altogether,  I  shall  leave 
you  for  the  future  to  .  .  .  contradict  yourself !  I  did  not 
mean  to  do  it  this  time,  only  that  Alfred  forced  me  into  it. 
But  he  said  .  .  .  '  How  the  Miss  Cokers  praised  him ! 
...  "It  was  delightful,"  they  cried,  "to  see  a  man  of 
such  a  great  genius  condescend  to  little  people  like  them." 
So  they  are  better  than  the  Athenceum,  and  I  shall  not  have 
them  spoken  of  ungently,  mind,  even  if  they  do  romance 
a  little  wildly,  and  marry  me,  next  time,  to  the  man  in 
the  moon. 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  177 

In  the  meantime,  dearest,  it  is  no  moonshine  that  I  was 
out  walking  to-day  again,  and  that  I  walked  up  all  these 
stairs  with  my  own  feet  on  returning.  I  sate  down  on  the 
stairs  two  or  three  times,  but  I  could  not  rest  in  the  draw- 
ing-room because  somebody  was  there,  and  I  was  not  car- 
ried, as  usual — see  how  vain-glorious  I  am.  And  what  a 
summer-sense  in  the  air — and  how  lovely  the  strips  of  sky 
between  the  houses !  And  yet  I  may  tell  you  truly,  that, 
constantly,  through  these  vivid  impressions,  I  am  think- 
ing and  feeling  that  mournful  and  bitter  would  be  to  me 
this  return  into  life,  apart  from  you,  apart  from  the  con- 
sideration of  you.  How  could  ever  I  have  borne  it,  I  keep 
feeling  constantly.  But  you  are  there,  in  the  place  of 
memory.  Ah — you  said  yesterday  that  you  were  not  un- 
grateful !  /  cannot  say  so.  I  blame  myself  often.  And 
yet  again  I  think  that  the  wrong  may  be  pardoned  to  me, 
for  that  those  affections  had  worked  out  on  me  their  utter- 
most pang — nearly  unto  death  I  had  felt  them — and  now 
if  I  am  to  live,  it  must  be  by  other  means — or  I  should 

die  still,  and  not  live.     Also  I  owe  you  gratitude do  I 

not  owe  yo u  gratitude?  Then,  i"  cannot  help  it  .  .  right  or 
wrong,  I  cannot  help  it  .  .  you  are  all  to  me,  and,  beloved 
— whichever  way  I  look,  I  only  can  see  you.  If  wrong,  it 
is  not  for  you  to  be  severe  on  me — 

Your  own 
Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday.     12  o'clock. 

I  get  nothing  by  the  post  this  morning : — perhaps  at  next 
delivery !  Well,  I  had  the  unexpected  largess  yesterday, 
you  know.  At  this  time  last  year  the  letters  came  once  a 
week!  Now  the  manna  falls  as  manna  should,  omitting 
only  the  seventh  day.  Do  you  know,  my  Ba, — the 
Campbell  mystery  is  all  but  solved,  to  my  thinking,  by 
supposing,  as  one  may,  that,  those  foolish  ladies  confound 
Vol.  II.— 12 


178   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  25 

their  cousin's  friend  Brown,  an  indubitable  Scot  and  Lord 
Jeffrey's  nephew,  —  (and  their  intimate  for  aught  I  know) — 
with  me.  He  is  in  town  now ;  did  dine  with  them  just  be- 
fore I  saw  him  a  fortnight  ago ;  and  may  meditate  happi- 
ness with  Miss  Campbell,  and  be  provided  with  a  paragon 
of  a  '  sister  '  besides.  Those  ladies  have  been  to  Scotland 
— may  easily  know  him  there  and  see  '  sights  '  with  him 
here.  Is  not  all  this  likely  ?  It  is  not  worth  writing  about 
to  White,  nor  a  visit  to  him  at  Doctor's  Commons,  but 
when  I  next  chance  on  his  company,  I  will  enquire. 

Here  is  the  review, — which  I  like  very  much — the  intro- 
ductory, abstract  remarks  might  be  better,  but  so  it  always 
is  when  a  man,  having  really  something  to  say  about  one 
precise  thing  (your  poems),  thinks  he  had  better  preface 
it  by  a  little  graceful  generality.  All  he  wanted  to  write,  I 
agree  in,  thoroughly  agree, — though  I  cannot  but  fancy 
my  own  selection, — that  might  be, — of  passages  and  single 
poems ! 

And,  dearest,  I  venture  to  keep  back  the  Statesmen,  as 
I  asked  leave  to  do  yesterday,  for  the  reasons  then  given — 
may  I  keep  it  back? 

Also  I  return  those  sketches, — now  they  have  been  in 
your  hand,  they  cannot  lie  about  here — (I  keep  brown 
paper  with  your  writing  on  it,  and  string,  and  the  wrap- 
page of  this  pen  of  mine — to  be  sure)  so  I  shall  get  you 
to  bear  with  them  again,  two  or  three  being  added,  just  as 
I  find  them.  There  is,  too,  the  ode  which  was  presented 
to  me  on  my  departure  from  Rome  by  an  enthusiastic 
Roman;  red  ribbon  and  all!  And  last  of  all  you  have  my 
play  as  altered  by  Macready :  greater  excisions  had  been 
determined  on,  but  on  the  appearance  of  the  printed  copy 
had  the  effect  it  intended  .  .  it  would  have  been  too  ludi- 
crous to  leave  out  the  whole  of  the  first  scene,  for  instance 
(as  was  in  contemplation),  and  then  to  tell  the  public  l  my 
play  '  had  been  acted.  I  refer  to  this  silly  business  only 
to  show  you  what  sucess  or  non-success  on  the  stage  means 
and  is  worth.     It  is  all  behind  me  now — so  far  behind ! 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKBETT  179 

Now  I  will  wait  and  see  what  next  post  may  bring  me 
from  dearest  Ba — Ba,  the  dear,  and  the  beloved,  e  sopra 
tutto,  the  tall !  Does  she  not '  stand  high  in  the  affection ' 
— of  her  verv  own 

K.  B.? 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  May  25,  1846.] 

Dear,  dear  love,  your  letter  comes  at  half  past  three  by 
a  new  Postman,  —  (very  bewildered).  You  will  perhaps 
have  received  my  parcel  and  note — if  not,  such  things  are 
on  the  road.  All  in  your  note  delights  me  entirely.  As 
for  my  walking  fast,  that  is  exactly  my  use  and  wont  .  .  I 
am  famous  for  it, — as  my  father  is  for  driving  old  lady- 
friends  into  illnesses,  and  then  saying  innocently,  '  I  took 
care  to  walk  very  slowly.'  When  I  have  anything  to  oc- 
cupy my  mind,  I  all  but  run — but  the  pen  can't  run,  for 
this  letter  must  go,  and  nothing  said. 

So,  Ba,  my  Ba,  Goodbye  till  tomorrow  from 
Your  own,  own. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  May  26,  1846.] 

My  beloved  I  scarcely  know  what  to  say  about  the 
poem.  It  is  almost  profane  and  a  sin  to  keep  you  from 
writing  it  when  your  mind  goes  that  way, — yet  I  am  afraid 
that  you  cannot  begin  without  doing  too  much  and  without 
suffering  as  a  consequence  in  your  head.  Now  if  you 
make  yourself  ill,  what  will  be  the  end?  So  you  see  my 
fears !  Let  it  be  however  as  it  must  be !  Only  you  will 
promise  to  keep  from  all  excesses,  and  to  write  very  very 
gently.  Ah — can  you  keep  such  a  promise,  if  it  is  made 
ever  so?     There  are  the  fears  again. 

You  are  very  strange  in  what  you  say  about  my  read* 


180   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  36 

ing  your  poetry — as  if  it  were  not  my  peculiar  gladness 
and  glory ! — my  own,  which  no  man  can  take  from  me. 
And  not  you,  indeed !  Yet  I  am  not  likely  to  mistake  your 
poetry  for  the  flower  of  your  nature,  knowing  what  that 
flower  is,  knowing  something  of  what  that  flower  is  with- 
out a  name,  and  feeling  something  of  the  mystical  perfume 
of  it.  When  I  said,  or  when  others  said  for  me,  that  my 
poetry  was  the  flower  of  me,  was  it  praise,  did  you  think, 
or  blame?  might  it  not  stand  for  a  sarcasm?  It  might, — 
if  it  were  not  true,  miserably  true  after  a  fashion. 

Yet  something  of  the  sort  is  true,  of  course,  with  all 
poets  who  write  directly  from  their  personal  experience 
and  emotions— their  ideal  rises  to  the  surface  and  floats 
like  the  bell  of  the  waterlily.  The  roots  and  the  muddy 
water  are  subaudita,  you  know — as  surely  there,  as  the 
flower. 

But  you  .  .  you  have  the  superabundant  mental  life 
and  individuality  which  admits  of  shifting  a  personality 
and  speaking  the  truth  still.  That  is  the  highest  faculty, 
the  strongest  and  rarest,  which  exercises  itself  in  Art, — we 
are  all  agreed  there  is  none  so  great  faculty  as  the  dra- 
matic. Several  times  you  have  hinted  to  me  that  I  made 
you  careless  for  the  drama,  and  it  has  puzzled  me  to  fancy 
how  it  could  be,  when  I  understand  myself  so  clearly  both 
the  difficulty  and  the  glory  of  dramatic  art.  Yet  I  am 
conscious  of  wishing  you  to  take  the  other  crown  besides — 
and  after  having  made  your  own  creatures  speak  in  clear 
human  voices,  to  speak  yourself  out  of  that  personality 
which  God  made,  and  with  the  voice  which  He  tuned  into 
such  power  and  sweetness  of  speech.  I  do  not  think  that, 
with  all  that  music  in  you,  only  your  own  personality 
should  be  dumb,  nor  that  having  thought  so  much  and 
deeply  on  life  and  its  ends,  you  should  not  teach  what  you 
have  learnt,  in  the  directest  and  most  impressive  way,  the 
mask  thrown  off  however  moist  with  the  breath.  And  it 
is  not,  I  believe,  by  the  dramatic  medium,  that  poets  teach 
most  impressively — I  have  seemed  to  observe  that !  .  .  it 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEEETT  181 

is  too  difficult  for  the  common  reader  to  analyse,  and  to 
discern  between  the  vivid  and  the  earnest.  Also  he  is  apt 
to  understand  better  always,  when  he  sees  the  lips  move. 
Now,  here  is  yourself,  with  your  wonderful  faculty  ! — it  is 
wondered  at  and  recognised  on  all  sides  where  there  are 
eyes  to  see — it  is  called  wonderful  and  admirable !  Yet, 
with  an  inferior  power,  you  might  have  taken  yourself 
closer  to  the  hearts  and  lives  of  men,  and  made  yourself 
dearer,  though  being  less  great.  Therefore  I  do  want  you 
to  do  this  with  your  surpassing  power — it  will  be  so  easy 
to  you  to  speak,  and  so  noble,  when  spoken.  (, 

Not  that  I  usen't  to  fancy  I  could  see  you  and  know 
you,  in  a  reflex  image,  in  your  creations  !  I  used,  you  re- 
member. How  these  broken  lights  and  forms  look  strange 
and  unlike  now  to  me,  when  I  stand  by  the  complete  idea. 
Yes,  now  I  feel  that  no  one  can  know  you  worthily  by  those 
poems.  Only  .  .  I  guessed  a  little.  Now  let  us  have 
your  own  voice  speaking  of  yourself — if  the  voice  may  not 
hurt  the  speaker — which  is  my  fear. 

Evening. — Thank  you,  dearest  dearest!  I  have  your 
parcel — I  have  your  letters  .  .  .  three  letters  to-day,  it 
is  certainly  feast  day  with  me.  Thank  you  my  own  dear- 
est. The  drawings  I  had  just  fixed  in  my  mind,  cour- 
ageously to  ask  for,  because  as  you  meant  me  to  keep  them 
I  did  not  see  why  I  should  throw  away  a  fortune — and 
they  return  to  me  with  interest  .  .  I  observe  these  new 
vivid  sketches !  Some  day  I  shall  put  them  into  a  book, 
as  you  should  have  done.  Then  for  the  Roman  ode,  and 
all  the  rest,  thank  you,  thank  you.  /  looked  here  and 
looked  there,  though,  for  a  letter— ^1  could  not  find  it  at 
first,  and  was  just  saying  to  myself  quite  articulately 
'  What  wickedness  ' !  .  .  .  meaning  that  it  was  wickedness 
in  you  to  send  me  a  parcel  without  a  word,  .  .  when  I 
came  upon  the  folded  paper.  For  /  looked  inside  the 
books,  be  sure.     7  did  not  toss  them  away  .  .  . 

There's  the  gratitude  of  the  world,  you  see !  and  of 
womankind  in  particular!  there's  the  malign  spirit  of  the 


182   THE  LETTERS  OF  BOBEBT  BBOWNING     [May  26 

genus  coffee-cup-throw-arum  !  Talking  of  which  coffee  cups, 
you  dare  me  to  it.  Which  is  imprudent,  to  say  the  least 
of  it.  I  heard  once  of  her  most  gracious  Majesty's  throw- 
ing a  tea  cup, — whereupon  Albertus  Magnus,  who  is  no 
conjurer,  could  find  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  walk  out 
of  the  room  in  solemn  silence,  If  I  had  been  he,  I  should 
have  tied  the  royal  hands,  I  think;  for  when  women  get 
to  be  warlike  after  that  demonstrative  fashion,  it  seems  to 
me  to  be  allowable  to  teach  that  they  are  not  the  strong- 
est. I  say  it,  never  thinking  of  my  '  licence  to '  throw 
coffee-cups — which  you  granted,  knowing  very  well  what 
I  know  intimately,  .  .  that  .  .  that  .  . 

I  have  a  theory  about  you.  Was  ever  anybody  in  the 
world,  .  .  a  woman  at  least,  .  .  angry  with  you  ?  If  any- 
one ever  tried,  did  she  not  fail  in  the  first  breath  of  the 
trying? — go  out  to  curse  like  the  prophet,  and  bless  in- 
stead? Tell  me  if  anyone  was  ever  angry  with  you?  It 
is  impossible,  I  know  perfectly.  Therefore,  as  to  the  cof- 
fee-cup license,  .  .  the  divine  Achilles,  invulnerable  all  but 
the  heel,  might  as  well  have  said  to  his  dearest  foe  '  Draw 
out  your  sword,  O  Diomede,  and  strike  me  across  the 
head,  prick  me  in  the  forehead,  slash  me  over  the  ears,  .  .  ' 
and  that  stand  for  a  proof  of  courage ! 

What  stuff  I  do  write,  to  be  sure.  I  was  out  to-day 
walking,  with  Arabel  and  Flush,  and  rested  at  the  book- 
seller's; but  as  I  went  farther  than  the  other  day,  I  let 
Stormie  carry  me  upstairs,  .  .  it  is  such  a  long  way !  Say 
how  you  are,  dearest — you  do  not!  Shall  you  walk  so 
fast  when  you  walk  with  me  under  the  trees?  I  shall  not 
let  you — I  shall  hang  back,  as  Flush  does,  when  he  won't 
go  with  a  string.  Ah — little  (altogether)  you  know  per- 
haps what  a  hard  Degree  that  B :  A :  is,  to  take the  BA 

which  is  not  a  Bachelor's. 

No,  no,  for  the  rest.  It  was  not  any  Brown  on  earth, 
but  the  only  Browning  of  the  great  genius,  who  was  shown 
up  as  intimate  friend  to  the  Miss  Cokers  and  elect  hus- 
band of  that  cloud,  Miss  Campbell  the  '  great  heiress  ' — all 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  183 

in  proportion,  observe !  But  I  do  entreat  you  not  to  say 
a  word  to  Dr.  White  or  another.  Why  should  you?  It 
is  mere  nonsense,— so  do  let  it  evaporate  quietly.  Why, 
with  all  my  doubts  for  which  you  have  blamed  me,  .  .  at 
the  thickest  and  saddest  of  the  doubting,  it  never  was  what 
people  could  say  of  you  that  could  move  me.  And  this  is 
so  foolish,  and  unbelieved  even  by  the  very  persons  who 
say  it,  perhaps !  Let  it  pass  away  with  other  dust,  in  the 
wind.     It  is  not  worth  the  watering. 

May  God  bless  you!  This  is  my  last  letter  .  .  al- 
ready !  I  had  another  criticism  to-day  from  America,  in 
a  book  called  '  Thoughts  on  the  Poets, '  which  is  written 
by  a  Mr.  Tuckermann,  and  selects  its  poets  on  the  most 
singular  principle  .  .  or  rather  on  none  at  all  .  .  begin- 
ning with  Petrarch,  ending  with  Bryant,  receiving  Tenny- 
son, Procter,  Hunt,  and  your  Ba  .  .  and  not  a  word  of 
you !  Stupid  book — Petrarch  and  Alfieri  are  the  only  for- 
eign poets  admitted — criticisms,  swept  back  to  the  desk 
from  the  magazines,  I  dare  say.  Yery  kind  to  me — you 
shall  see  if  you  like. 

And  now  .  .  good-night  at  last !  it  must  come.  Have 
I  not  written  you  one  letter  as  long  as  the  three?  Only 
not  worth  a  third  as  much — that  I  know. 

Wholly  and  ever  your 

Ba. 

Oh  I  must  speak,  though  I  meant  to  be  silent !  though 
first,  I  meant  to  keep  the  great  subject  of  the  Statesmen  for 
an  explosion  on  Wednesday.  I  gave  up  the  early  poems 
because  I  felt  contented  to  read  them  afterwards — but  lis- 
ten .  .  my  Statesmen,  I  will  not  give  up.  Now  listen — I 
expect  nothing  at  all  from  them — they  were  written  for  an- 
other person,  and  under  peculiar  circumstances  .  .  they  are 
probably  as  bad  as  anything  written  by  you,  can  be.  Will 
that  do,  to  say?  And  may  I  see  them?  Now  I  ask  ever  so 
humbly   .  .  Dearest  I 


184   THE  LETTEKS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  26 

R.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

3£.p.m.  Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  May  26,  1846.] 

Dearest,  your  dearest  of  notes  only  arrived  at  2  o'clock 
— and  Carlyle  has  just  been  with  me, — come  on  horseback 
for  the  express  purpose  of  strolling  about— so  that  I  was 
forced,  forced  .  .  you  see !  He  is  gone  again — and  there 
is  only  time  to  tell  you  why  no  more  is  told — but  to-mor- 
row will  supply  all  deficiency.  Bless  you,  my  dearest  best 
Ba.     How  I  love  you ! 

Your  own  — 

Poor  Capt.  Jones  is  dead, — you  may  see  in  the  papers. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Thursday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  May  28,  1846.] 

Dearest  it  is  my  fancy  to  write  quickly  this  morning 
and  take  my  letter  to  the  post  myself.  Oh,  I  shall  do  it 
this  time — there  will  be  no  obstacle.  The  office  is  just 
below  Hodgson's,  the  bookseller's.  And  so  with  this  let- 
ter, please  to  understand  that  I  go  to  you  twice  and  wholly, 
once  in  the  spirit,  and  again  in  the  body. 

But  there  is  nothing  to  tell  you,  except  that  I  think  of 
you  with  the  thought  which  never  can  change  essentially, 
while  it  deepens  always.  What  I  meant  to  say  yesterday 
was  simply,  that  I,  knowing  that,  should  be  '  bad '  if  I 
could  fail  practically  to  myself  and  you.  I  have  known 
from  the  beginning  the  whole  painful  side  of  what  is  be- 
fore me,  also  .  .  I  should  have  no  excuse  therefore  for  any 
weakness  in  any  fear.  Should  I  not  be  '  bad '  then,  and 
more  unworthy  of  you  than  even  according  to  my  own 
account,  if  the  obstacle  came  from  me?  It  never  can. 
Bemember  to  be  sure  of  it. 

A  change  of  feeling  indeed  would  be  a  different  thing, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEEETT  185 

and  we  think  exactly  alike  on  the  fit  consequences  of  it. 
Which  change  is  however  absolutely  impossible  in  my  po- 
sition and  to  me,  '  for  reasons  .  .  for  reasons '  .  .  .  .  you 
guess  at  some  of  them,  some  are  spoken,  and  others  can- 
not be. 

In  one  word  for  all,  life  seems  to  come  to  me  only 
through  you. 

I  am  your  very  own. 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  May  28,  1846.] 

There  is  a  long  four  days  more  of  waiting — I  feel  more 
and  more  and  ever  more  how,  wanting  you,  my  life  wants 
all  it  can  have.  Dear  Ba,  never  wonder  that  I  fancy  at 
times  such  an  event's  occurrence  as  you  tell  me  I  need  not 
fear.  I  shall  always  fear, — never  can  I  hold  you  sufficiently 
fast,  I  shall  think.  So,  if  my  jewel  must  be  taken  from 
me,  let  some  eagle  stoop  down  for  it  suddenly,  baffling  all 
human  precaution,  as  I  look  on  my  treasure  on  a  tower's 
top  miles  and  miles  inland, — don't  let  me  have  to  remem- 
ber, though  but  in  a  minute  of  life  afterwards,  that  I  let 
it  drop  into  the  sea  through  foolishly  balancing  it  in  my 
open  hand  over  the  water.  There  is  one  of  Ba's  '  myths,' 
excepting  all  Ba's  felicitousness  of  application  and  glory 
of  invention, — but  then  it  has  all  my  own  love  and  worship 
of  Ba's  self,  all  I  care  to  be  distinguished  by. 

I  hope  you  go  out  this  fine  morning — the  wind  is  cold, 
to  be  sure,  but  London  is  much  warmer  than  this  place, 
and  the  wind  kept  off  by  the  houses.  I  have  got  two  of 
Mr.  Kenyon's  kind  notes,  to  confirm  the  appointment  for 
Wednesday  (when  Mrs.  Jameson  is  to  be  of  the  party), 
and  to  invite  me  to  meet  Landor  on  Tuesday — so  that  for 
three  days  running  I  shall  be  in  Ba's  very  neighbourhood 
.  .  for  if  the  wind  can't  get  through  houses  and  walls,  Ba 
can  and  does,  as  my  heart  knows.     Might  I  not  see  you 


186   THE  LETTEKS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [May  28 

for  a  moment  on  the  Wednesday?  Ah,  there  will  be  time 
to  contrive,  to  concert — but  the  worst  is  that  when  I  see 
you  I  contrive  nothing,  nor  do  you  help  me,  you  Ba! 
Else,  out  of  these  walks, — who  is  to  object  to  my  going 
to  see  the  Thames  Tunnel  or  the  Tower,  by  way  of  Wim- 
pole  Street, — wanting  the  organ  of  locality  as  I  am  said 
to?  Whereas  I  am  all  one  consciousness  of  the  influence 
of  one  locality,  turning  as  my  whole  heart  and  soul  turn 
to  Ba, — my  dearest,  dearest,  whom  may  God  bless  and 
requite.  I  can  only  kiss  you,  as  I  do,  and  be  your  very 
own,  my  Ba,  as  I  am  and  shall  be  ever. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  May  29,  1846.] 

Dearest  dearest,  I  thought  I  had  lost  my  letter  to-night, 
for  not  a  sound  came  like  a  postman's  knock  .  .  I  thought 
I  had  lost  my  letter,  talking  of  losing  jewels.  I  waited 
and  waited,  and  at  last  broke  silence  to  Arabel  with,  '  when 
will  the  post  come  ?  '  '  Not  to-night, '  said  she — '  it  is 
nearly  ten. '  On  which  I  exclaimed  so  pitifully  and  with 
such  a  desperate  sense  of  loss,  '  You  mean  to  say  that 
I  shall  have  no  letter  tonight,'?  .  .  that  after  she  had 
laughed  a  very  little,  she  went  down-stairs  to  search  the 
letterbox  and  brought  me  what  I  wanted. 

And  you  think  it  possible  that  I  should  give  up  my 
letters  and  their  golden  fountain? — 1!  .  .  while  I  live  and 
have  understanding !  I  can't  fancy  what  manner  of  eagles 
you  believe  in.  If  in  real  live  eagles,  .  .  why  it  is  as 
probable  as  any  other  thing  of  the  sort,  that  I  (or  you) 
should  be  snatched  away  by  an  eagle  .  .  .  the  eagle  who 
used  to  live,  for  instance,  at  the  Coliseum  of  Regent's 
Park.  And  when  I  ride  away  upon  an  eagle,  I  may  take 
a  wrong  counsel  perhaps  that  hour  from  other  birds  of  the 
air :  .  .  .  but  till  then,  I  am  yours  to  have  and  to  hold,  .  . 
unless,  as  you  say,  you  open  your  hand  wide  and  cry  with 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABBETT  187 

a  distinct  voice,  '  Go. '  It  shall  be  your  doing  and  not 
mine,  if  we  two  are  to  part— or  God's  own  doing,  through 
illness  and  death.  And  the  way  to  avert  danger  is  to 
avoid  observation  and  discussion,  as  much  as  we  can — and 
we  have  not  been  frightened  much  yet,  .  .  now  have  we  ? 
As  for  "Wednesday,  there  is  time  to  think.  But  how  can 
you  leave  your  sister?  you  cannot.  So  unless  you  de- 
range your  '  myth '  altogether,  and  find  a  trystiDg  place 
for  us,  .  .  .  each  mounted  on  an  eagle,  .  .  in  Nephelococ- 
cygia,  we  had  better  be  satisfied,  it  seems  to  me,  with 
Monday  and  Saturday. 

I  was  out  to-day  as  you  saw  by  my  letter,  which  with 
my  own  hand  I  dropped  into  the  post.  I  liked  to  do  it 
beyond  what  you  discern.  And  how  the  sun  shone, — and 
the  little  breath  of  wind  could  do  nobody  harm,  I  felt. 
Also  there  was  the  '  Autography  '  in  the  shop-window  to 
see,  before  I  sate  down  in  the  shop.  So  you  were  thought 
of  by  necessity,  besides  the  freewill. 

Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  bound  to  you  hand  and  foot? 
Why  do  you  not  see  what  God  sees? 

But  it  is  late,  and  the  rest  must  be  for  to-morrow.  The 
sender  of  the  rose-tree  sent  to-day  a  great  heliotrope — so, 
presently,  you  will  have  to  seek  me  in  a  wood. 

Everywhere  your  own 
Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  29,  1846.] 

My  own  darling,  your  little  note  was  a  great  delight  to 
me  last  night,  when  I  expected  nothing ;  and  though  I  do 
not  hear  to-day,  I  will  believe  you  are  well  after  the  walk 
— the  walk,  what  a  '  divine  fancy ' ;  not  mentioned  by 
Quarles ! 

And  then  the  words  that  follow  the  good  news  of  the 
walk  .  .  those  assurances  .  .  oh,  my  best,  dearest  Ba, — it 
is  all  right  that  I  cannot  speak  here, — if  I  could,  by  some 


188   THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNING    [May  29 

miracle,  speak,  it  would  be  foolish : — but  my  life  lies  be- 
fore you  to  take  and  direct,  and  keep  or  give  away, — I  am 
altogether  your  own. 

I  come  in  rather  tired  from  Town — having  spent  the 
morning  at  the  Exhibition,  and  made  calls  beside.  (Etty's 
picture  of  the  sirens  is  abominable ;  though  it  looks  admi- 
rable beside  another  picture  of  his :  did  I  not  tell  you  he 
had  chosen  the  sirens  for  a  subject?) 

Oh,  dearest  beyond  all  dearness,  now,  at  this  moment 
only,  your  last  and  pro  tempore  best  letter  comes  to  me ! 
One  can't  scold  and  kiss  at  the  same  time  .  .  so  let  the 
wretched  Post  arrangements  be  unmentioned  for  the  mo- 
ment; there  is  enough  to  get  up  a  revolution  about,  I  do 
think!  But  you,  you  spoil  me  and  undo  me  almost, — 
ought  to  do  so,  at  least, — they  were  too  delicious  to  bear, 
the  things  you  say  to  me !  Why  will  you  not  say  rather 
what  I  feel, — for  you  can,  perhaps,  being  what  you  are, — 
and  let  me  subscribe  it !  It  is  a  real  pain  to  me  to  feel  as 
I  feel,  and  speak  no  more  than  I  speak. 

And  again  the  time  urges  .  .  just  when  I  want  most  to 
go  on  writing — but  to-morrow  I  will  do  nothing  else.  Take 
this  now,  sweet,  sweet  Ba,  with  my  whole  heart  that  loves, 
loves  you !  your  R. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  May  30,  1846.] 

I  have  your  letter  .  .  you  who  cannot  write !  The  con- 
trariety is  a  part  of  the  '  miracle. '  After  all  it  seems  to 
me  that  you  can  write  for  yourself  pretty  well — rather  too 
well  I  used  to  think  from  the  beginning.  But  if  you  per- 
sist in  the  proposition  about  my  doing  it  for  you,  leaving 
room  for  your  signature  .   .  .  shall  it  be  this  way? 

Show  me  how  to  get  rid  of  you. 

(signed)  B.  B. 

Now  isn't  it  I  who  am  .  .  not  '  balancing  my  jewel ' 
over  the  gulph  .  .  but  actually  tossing  it  up  in  the  air  out 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  189 

of  sheer  levity  of  joyousness?  Only  it  is  not  perhaps  such 
dangerous  play  as  it  looks :  there  may  be  a  little  string 
perhaps,  tying  it  to  my  finger.  Which,  if  it  is  not  impru- 
dence in  act,  is  imprudence  in  fact,  you  see ! 

Dearest,  I  committed  a  felony  for  your  sake  to-day — ■ 
so  never  doubt  that  I  love  you.  We  went  to  the  Botanical 
Gardens,  where  it  is  unlawful  to  gather  flowers,  and  I 
was  determined  to  gather  this  for  you,  and  the  gardeners 
were  here  and  there  .  .  they  seemed  everywhere  .  .  but  I 
stooped  down  and  gathered  it.  Is  it  felony,  or  burglary 
on  green  leaves — or  what  is  the  name  of  the  crime?  would 
the  people  give  me  up  to  the  police,  I  wonder?  Transie 
ck  peur,  I  was,  .  .  listening  to  Arabel's  declaration  that 
all  gathering  of  flowers  in  these  gardens  is  highly  im- 
proper,—and  I  made  her  finish  her  discourse,  standing  be- 
tween me  and  the  gardeners — to  prove  that  I  was  the  better 
for  it. 

How  pretty  those  gardens  are,  by  the  way !  We  went 
to  the  summer-house  and  sate  there,  and  then  on,  to  the 
empty  seats  where  the  band  sit  on  your  high  days.  What 
I  enjoy  most  to  see,  is  the  green  under  the  green  .  .  where 
the  grass  stretches  under  trees.  That  is  something  un- 
speakable to  me,  in  the  beauty  of  it.  And  to  stand  under 
a  tree  and  feel  the  green  shadow  of  the  tree !  1  never 
knew  before  the  difference  of  the  sensation  of  a  green 
shadow  and  a  brown  one.  I  seemed  to  feel  that  green 
shadow  through  and  through  me,  till  it  went  out  at  the 
soles  of  my  feet  and  mixed  with  the  other  green  below.  Is 
it  nonsense,  or  not?  Remember  that  by  too  much  use  we 
lose  the  knowledge  and  apprehension  of  things,  and  that 
I  may  feel  therefore  what  you  do  not  feel- 
But  in  everything  I  felt  you — and  alwaj-s,  dearest  be- 
loved, you  were  nearer  to  me  than  the  best. 

Well;  to  go  on  with  my  story.  Coming  home  and  sub- 
mitting to  be  carried  up-stairs  because  I  was  tired,  the 
news  was  that  Miss  Bayley  had  waited  to  see  me  three 
quarters  of  an  hour.     Then  she  sate  with  me  an  hour — 


190   THE  LETTERS  OF  EOBEET  BBOWNING    [May  30 

and  oh,  such  kind,  insisting,  persisting  plans  about  Italy ! 
I  did  not  know  what  to  say,  so  I  was  niaise  and  grateful, 
and  said  '  thank  you,  thank  you '  as  I  could.  Did  Mrs. 
Jameson  tell  you  of  her  scheme  of  going  to  Florence  for 
two  years  and  to  Venice  for  one,  taking  her  niece  with  her 
in  order  to  an  '  artistical  education  '  ?  And  Mr.  Bezzi,  who 
is  the  '  most  accurate  of  men, '  furnishes  the  details  of  nec- 
essary expenses,  and  assures  her  in  his  programme  that 
she  may  '  walk  in  silk  attire '  and  drive  her  carriage  like 
an  English  aristocrat,  for  three  hundred  a  year,  at  Flor- 
ence— but  the  place  is  English-ridden  .  .  filled  and  pol- 
luted. Sorrento  is  better  or  even  Pisa.  We  will  keep  our 
Siren-isles  to  ourselves  .   .  will  we  not  ? 

And  now  tell  me.  Was  there  not  a  picture  of  Sirens 
by  Etty,  exhibited  years  ago  .  .  which  was  also  '  abomi- 
nable,' as  I  thought  when  I  saw  it?  Is  it  the  same  pic- 
ture returning  like  a  disquieted  ghoule  .  .  much  more 
that,  than  like  a  Siren  at  all,  if  it  is  the  same,  ..  I  re- 
member it  was  scarcely  to  be  looked  at  for  hideousness  .  . 
though  I  heard  some  carnivorous  connoisseurs  praising  the 
'  colouring  '  !  !  Foreigners  might  refer  such  artistical  suc- 
cesses to  our  national  '  beef '  .  .  .  '  le  bifteak '  ideal.  The 
materialism  of  Art. 

Can  you  love  me  so?  do  you?  .  .  will  you  always? 
And  is  any  of  that  love  '  lost, '  do  you  think,  .  .  as  the 
saying  is?  Indeed  it  is  not.  I  put  golden  basins  all  round 
(the  reverse  shape  of  lachrymatories)  to  catch  every  drop 
as  it  falls,  .  .  so  that  when  we  two  shall  meet  together  in 
the  new  world,  I  may  look  in  your  face  (as  I  cannot  at  this 
moment)  and  say  '  None  of  the  love  was  lost,  though  all  of 
it  was  undeserved.'  May  God  bless  you,  dearest,  best! 
My  heart  is  in  you,  I  think.  You  would  laugh  to  see  the 
books  I  take  up  .  .  first,  '  Strafford '  .  .  then  Suetonius 
to  see  about  your  Caesar  .  .  then  the  Naples  book.  Oh, 
but  I  find  you  out  in  the  Statesmen  .  .  for  all  the  dim 
light.  Your  very  own 

Ba. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARKETT  191 

E.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  May  30,  1846.] 

Oh,  yes,  do  '  sliow  ine  how  to  get  rid  of  you,'  my  best 
Ba, — for  so  I  shall  have  the  virtuous  delight  of  deciding 
to  keep  you,  instead  of  being  wholly  kept  by  you,— it  is  all 
out  of  my  head,  now,  how  I  used  to  live  when  I  was  my 
own :  and  if  you  can,  by  one  more  witchery,  give  me  back 
that  feeling  for  once  .  .  Ba,  I  have  no  heart  to  write  more 
nonsense,  when  I  can  take  your  dearest  self  into  my  arms ; 
yet  I  shall  never  quite  lie  quiet  and  happy,  I  do  think  .  . 
I  shall  be  always  wishing  you  would  be  angry  and  cruel 
and  unjust,  for  a  moment,  —  for  my  love  overflows  the 
bounds,  needs  to  prove  itself — all  which  is  foolish,  I  know. 
To-day,  for  some  unknown  reason,  is  a  day  of  hope  with 
me  .  .  all  bright  things  seem  possible;  I  was  feeling 
them  so,  when  your  note  came — as  I  sate  in  the  garden — 
and  when  I  saw  the  flower  (Paracelsus'  own  .  .  they  usu- 
ally ornament  his  pictures  with  it, — I  said  something  on 
the  subject  in  the  poem,  too,  and  gave  a  note  about  '  Flam- 
mula  citrinula — herba  Paracelso  multum  familiaris  ' — ) 
when  I  saw  that,  and  read  on  and  on, — every  now  and  then 
laying  the  letter  down  to  feel  the  entire  joy, — and  when 
the  end  came, — Ba,  dearest  Ba,  it  was  with  me  then  as 
now,  as  always  after  steady  thinking  of  what  you  are  to 
me  .  .  I  cannot  tell  you — but  for  the  past,  utterly  irre- 
spective of  the  future, — for  what  you  have  been,  this  love 
cannot  cease  though  you  were  transformed  into  all  you 
are  not  nor  could  ever  be.  I  mean,  that  after  the  blow 
struck,  the  natural  vibration  must  follow  and  continue  its 
proper  period — and  that  my  love  for  what  I  have  received 
from  you  already  must  last  to  my  life's  end — cannot  end 
sooner !     '  Shall  I  continue  to  love  you ! ' 

You  said  in  Thursday's  letter — '  We  have  not  been 
frightened  much  yet,'  our  meetings  have  been  uninter- 
rupted hitherto,  and  these  letters:  yes,  that  I  am  most 


192    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  30 

thankful  for — whatever  should  happen,  our  real  relation 
one  to  the  other  is  wholly  known — that  fact  has  been  estab- 
lished beyond  possibility  of  doubt  at  least.  I  don't  make 
myself  understood  here,  I  know, — but,  think, — if  at  the 
very  beginning  any  accident  had  separated  us  .  . 

But  I  will  believe  in  the  end  now  and  henceforth — I 
will  believe  you  are  my  very  own  Ba, — my  best  dream's 
realization,  my  life's  fulfilment  and  consummation — and 
having  discovered  you,  I  shall  live  and  die  with  you.  So 
may  God  dispose. 

I  will  write  the  rest, — (nothing  is  here)  a  longer  letter 
to-morrow— but  now  my  mind  is  too  full  of  you — the  poor 
hand  gets  despised  for  lagging  after !  All  my  thoughts  are 
with  you,  dearest.  May  God  bless  you  and  make  me  less 
unworthy —  being  your  own,  own  R. 

One  more  day — one,  and  Monday ! 

(See  what  kindness  of  Mr.  Kenyon!  I  do  not  accept, 
having  no  need  to  trouble  him  as  he  desires — but  see  how 
kind.) 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  May  30,  1846.] 

You  shall  have  a  visit  from  me  on  the  seventh  day  as 
on  the  others,  I  think,  because  I  remember  you  every  day 
equally,  and  because,  without  waiting  for  your  Saturday's 
letter,  I  have  always  with  me  enough  of  you,  to  thank  you. 
This  morning,  Henrietta  and  I  went  as  usual  to  Hodgson's 
and  took  possession  of  the  chair  in  waiting,  as  Flush  did 
of  the  whole  territory,  setting  himself,  with  all  the  airs  of 
a  landed  proprietor,  to  snap  at  the  shop  boy.  Nota  bene 
■ — Flush  is  likel}T  to  injure  my  popularity  if  I  take  him 
about  with  me  much.  He  has  been  used,  you  see,  to  be 
'  Ccesar  in  his  own  house,'  and  the  transition  to  being 
Caesar  everywhere  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.     Yet 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  193 

as  to  leaving  him  at  home,  it  is  impossible,  .  .  not  to 
mention  other  objections!  His  delight  in  going  out  in 
the  carriage  is  scarcely  a  natural  thing — but  I  have  told 
you  of  it.  Yesterday  I  was  in  the  back  drawing-room 
waiting  to  go  out,  and  just  said  to  him,  '  Flush !  go  and 
see  if  the  carriage  is  come  ' — instantly  he  ran  to  the  front 
windows,  standing  on  his  hind  legs  and  looking  up  the 
street  and  down.  Now  Mr.  Kenyon  would  declare  that 
that  was  my  invention.  Yet  it  is  the  literal  truth  of 
history. 

Coming  back  from  Hodgson's,  we  passed  our  door  and 
walked  to  57  and  home,  which  is  an  improvement  in  the 
distance.  Then  I  walked  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  was  carried  the  rest  of  the  way.  May  I  be  tired  a 
little,  after  it  all?     Just  a  little,  perhaps. 

Henrietta  dined  at  Mr.  Lough's  yesterday,  and  met 
Miss  Camilla  Toulmin  who  was  gracious  .  .  and  Profes- 
sor Forbes,  who  can  do  nothing  without  the  polka,  .  .  and 
sundries.  There  was  a  splendid  dinner,  and  wine  of  all 
vintages — one  is  in  a  strait  in  such  cases  to  know  how  to 
praise  at  once  the  hospitable  intentions  and  to  blame  the 
bad  taste — surely  it  is  bad  taste  in  a  man  like  Mr.  Lough 
who  lives  by  his  genius,  to  give  ambitious  dinners  like  a 
man  who  lives  by  his  dinners.  The  true  dignity  of  sim- 
plicity in  these  things  were  worth  such  a  man's  holding, 
one  might  think.  But  he  is  kind  and  liberal,  and  a  good, 
artist,  .  .  and  sent  me  a  very  gracious  invitation  to  go 
and  see  his  works. 

The  Hedleys  are  likely  to  be  in  England  this  summer 

again more's  the  pity.     I  am  fond  of  them,  but  would 

rather,  rather,  not  see  them  just  now,  and  not  be  seen  by 
them — for  eyes  have  they,  and  can  see.  My  uncle  Hedley 
comes  next  week,  .  .  comes  to  London  for  several  weeks 
.  .  that  is  certain — and  my  aunt  after  settling  the  younger 
part  of  her  family  at  Bareges  for  the  summer,  'ponders 
coming,  .  .  as  I  behold  from  afar  off,  .  .  with  her  daugh- 
ter Arabella,  who  is  to  be  married  immediately  to  the 
Vol.  II.— 13 


194   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [May  80 

younger  brother  of  the  great  Brewery  partner,  Barclay 
and  Bevan,  a  Mr.  Bevan.  But  they  will  not  be  in  this 
house,  and  we  must  manage  as  we  can,  dearest !  One  leap 
over  Sunday,  and  Monday  comes  bringing  you !  Then,  I 
shall  have  you  near  on  Tuesday  besides,  and  Wednesday, 
afterwards !  how  the  cup  overflows !  May  God  bless  you 
my  beloved !  It  is  not  exaggeration  to  say  that  I  feel  you 
in  the  air  and  the  sun. 

Ever  and  ever  your  own  I  am ! 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  June  1,  1846.] 

My  own  Ba,  do  you  want  to  turn  my  head  with  good 
fortune  and  get  at  my  secrets,  that  you  give  me  two  letters 
in  one  day?  For  there  was  too  much  life  and  warmth,  I 
do  think,  in  these  last,  to  be  kept  in  the  Postman's  pouch 
as  before — he  delivered  them  punctually  as  he  was  obliged, 
not  before  his  cold  newspapers  and  railway-prospectuses 
felt  astonished,  you  may  be  sure;  so,  as  I  saj^,  do  you 
want  to  try  my  temper  and  bring  out  infirmities  of  mind 
that  may  be  latent,  as  kings  used  to  put  robes  and  crowns 
on  their  favourites  to  see  what  they  would  do  then? 

I  will  try  and  say  as  soberly  as  I  can, — if  you  did  not 
write  to  me  for  a  week,  I  would  remember  and  love  you 
the  same — you  are  not  bound  to  any  kindness,  much  less 
to  this  extravagance — which  yet  so  blesses  me  that — 

Let  me  leave  what  I  can  never  say,  and  make  the  few 
remarks  I  ought  to  have  made  before.  Mrs.  Jameson  did 
tell  me  something  about  her  intended  journey  to  Italy — 
but  not  in  detail  as  to  you.  Miss  Bayley  seems  worthy  to 
be  your  friend,  dearest, — and  it  is  satisfactory,  very  satis- 
factory to  find  her  opinion  thus  confirming  yours,  of  the 
good  you  will  derive  from  travelling.  You  know  I  look  on 
you  with  absolute  awe,  in  a  sense, — I  don't  understand 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  195 

how  such  a  creature  lives  and  breathes  and  moves  and 
does  not  move  into  fine  air  altogether  and  leave  us  of  the 
Etty-manufacture !  I  have  solemnly  set  down  in  the  tab- 
lets of  my  brain  that  Ba  prefers  morphine  to  pork,  but  can 
eat  so  much  of  a  chicken  as  Flush  refuses — a  chapter  in 
my  natural  history  quite  as  important  as  one  in  Pliny's 
(and  iElian's  too)—  '  When  the  Lion  is  sick,  nothing  can 
cure  him  but  to  eat  an  Ape ! ' — though  not  so  important  as 
my  great,  greatest  record  of  all — 'A  cup  of  coffee  will  gen- 
erally cure  Ba's  headaches — ' 

As  for  Pisa  or  Florence,  or  Sorrento,  or  New  Orleans, 
— ubi  Ba,  ibi  R  B!  Florence,  however,  you  describe  ex- 
actly .  .  the  English  there  are  intolerable, — even  from  a 
distance  you  see  that.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  here  in  Eng- 
land of  a  regular  system  of  tactics  by  which  parvenus  man- 
age to  get  among  the  privileged  classes  which  at  home 
would  keep  them  off  inexorably.  Such  go  to  Florence, 
make  acquaintance  as  '  travellers, '  keeping  the  native  con- 
nexions in  the  farthest  of  back  grounds,  and  after  a  year 
or  two's  expatriation,  come  back  and  go  boldly  to  rejoice 
the  friends  they  '  passed  those  amusing  days  with  '  &c. 

What  you  say  of  Lough  is  right  and  true  in  one  point 
of  view — but  I  excuse  him,  knowing  the  way  of  life  in  Lon- 
don— what  alternative  has  he?  Even  when  you  ask  people 
by  ones  and  twos,  and  think  to  be  rational,  what  do  you 
get  for  your  pains?  Not  long  ago  somebody  invited  him- 
self to  dine  with  me — and  got  of  course  the  plainest  fare, 
and  just  hock  and  claret,  because  I  like  them  better  than 
heavier  wines  myself,  and  suppose  others  may.  I  had  to 
dine  in  the  same  manner  with  my  friend  a  week  after,  and 
he  judiciously  began  by  iced  champagne,  forced  vegetables 
&c.  What  was  that  but  telling  me  such  was  his  notion  of 
the  duty  of  the  giver  of  '  just  a  chop  '  according  to  stipu- 
lation? It  is  all  detestable — a  mere  pretext !  there  is  sim- 
ply a  'fait  accompli  '  in  every  such  dinner, — it  is  an  eter- 
nal record  (to  the  seasons'  end)  that  you  witnessed  (because 
you  may  let  it  alone  for  aught  anybody  cares,  so  long  as 


196   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [June  1 

you  have  eyes  and  can  see) — such  a  succession  of  turbot, 
and  spring-soup  and — basta  !  I  shall  go  and  take  tea  with 
Carlyle  before  very  long.  Lough  has  asked  me  more  than 
once,  but  I  never  went.  I  like  him  when  he  is  not  on  the 
subject  of  himself  or  other  artists.  Of  one  particular  in 
his  liberality  I  can  bear  testimony,  he  promises  at  a  great 
rate.  Some  three  years  ago  he  most  preposterously  signi- 
fied his  intention  of  giving  me  a  cast  of  one  of  his  busts — 
me  who  had  neither  claim  on  him,  the  slightest,  nor  much 
desire  for  the  bust ;  but  on  this  intimation  I  was  bound  to 
express  as  many  thanks  as  if  the  bust  had  arrived  in  very 
plaster, — which  it  has  not  done  to  this  day;  so  that  I  was 
too  prodigal,  you  see,  and  instead  of  thanks  ought  to  have 
contented  myself  with  making  over  to  him  the  whole 
profits  of  '  Luria ' — value  received.  But,  jokes  apart,  he 
is  a  good,  kind  man  I  believe,  so  don't  mention  this  ab- 
surdity to  your  sister — which  I  am  sorry  for  having  men- 
tioned now  that  mentioned  it  is !  So  sorrow  shall  be 
turned  into  joy,  for  I  will  only  think  that  the  evening  is 
come,  and  night  will  follow,  and  morning  end  .  .  3  o'clock 
with  all  of  dearest,  dearest  Ba, — with  the  walkings  and 
drivings  to  evidence  in  her  face?  My  face,  thank  God,  I 
am  let  say  to  my  unutterable  joy  and  pride  and  love  above 
all  other  feelings. 

Ever  your  own. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  2,  1846.] 

You  understand,  dearest  beloved,  all  I  could  mean 
about  your  sister's  coming  here.  Both  I  was  afraid  of 
not  being  liked  enough  .  .  which  was  one  reason,  and 
none  the  less  reasonable  because  of  your  being  '  infatu- 
ated '  .  .  (oh,  that  is  precisely  the  word  to  use,  and  in- 
deed I  never  falter  to  myself  in  the  applying  of  it !)  and 
I  felt  it  to  be  impossible  for  me  to  receive  so  near  a  rela- 
tive of  yours,  your  own  only  sister,  as  I  should  another 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABBETT  197 

and  a  stranger.  There  would  be  the  need  in  me  of  being 
affectionate  to  your  sister !  how  could  I  not?  and  yet,  how 
could  1?  Everything  is  at  once  too  near  and  too  far — it 
is  enough  to  make  me  tremble  to  think  of  it — it  did,  when 
Mr.  Kenyon  made  his  proposition.     I  would  rather,  ten 

times  over,  receive  Queen  Victoria  and  all  her  court do 

you  understand?  can  you  misunderstand?  can  you  pretend 
to  fancy,  as  you  talked  yesterday,  that  the  reluctance  came 
from  my  having  '  too  many  visitors, '  or  from  any  of  those 
common  causes.  Why,  she  is  your  sister — and  that  was 
the  cause  of  the  reluctance.  You  will  not  dare  to  turn  it 
into  a  wrong  against  yourself. 

Now  I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  question,  dearest  of 
mine,  and  you  will  consider  it  carefully  and  examine  your 
own  wishes  in  respect  to  it,  before  I  have  any  answer.  In 
fact  it  is  not  necessary  to  treat  of  the  subject  of  it  at  all 
at  this  moment — we  have  a  great  deal  of  time  before  us. 
Still,  I  want  to  know  whether,  upon  reflection,  you  see  it 
to  be  wise  and  better  for  me  to  go  to  Italy  with  Miss  Bay- 
ley,  or  with  any  other  person  who  may  be  willing  to  take 
me,  (supposing  I  should  find  such  a  plan  possible)  and  that 
you  should  follow  with  Mr.  Chorley  or  alone,  .  .  leaving 
other  thoughts  for  another  year.  Or  if  I  find  this  scheme, 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  impossible,  shall  we  gain  any- 
thing, do  you  think,  on  any  side  of  the  question  that  you 
can  see,  by  remaining  quietly  as  we  are,  you  at  New  Cross, 
and  I  here,  until  next  year's  summer  or  autumn?  Shall 
we  be  wiser,  more  prudent,  for  any  reason,  or  in  any  de- 
gree, by  such  a  delay? 

It  is  the  question  I  ask  you — it  is  no  proposal  of  mine, 
understand — nor  shall  I  tell  you  my  own  impression  about 
it.  I  have  told  you  that  I  would  do  as  you  should  decide, 
and  I  will  do  that  and  no  other.  Only  on  that  very  ac- 
count it  is  the  more  necessary  that  you  should  decide  well, 
and  according  to  the  best  lights  of  your  own  judgment  and 
reason. 

I  forgot  to  talk  to  you  yesterday  of  your  Statesmen 


198   THE  LETTERS  OP  EOBEET  BROWNING     [June  2 

which  I  read  with  a  peculiar  sort  of  pleasure,  coming  and 
going  as  I  see  you  and  miss  you.  There  is  no  mistaking 
your  footsteps  along  the  sands. 

May  God  bless  you,  dear  dearest !  Say  how  your  head 
is,  and  love  me  so  much  more  than  Machiavelli,  as  to  spare 
it  from  farther  injury.  It  is  not  hard  to  think  of  you  to- 
day in  this  chair,  where  you  were  sitting  yesterday — do 
you  think  it  is  ? 

Your  own 

Ba. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  2,  1846.] 

You  are  the  most  entirely  lovable  creature  I  ever 
dreamed  perhaps  might  be  in  a  better  world — altogether 
made  up  of  affectionateness  and  generosity.  I  do  not 
much  fear,  now,  I  shall  ever  offend  you — in  the  miserable 
way  of  giving  you  direct  offence  which  mortal  will  and 
endeavour  could  avert  (although  I  speak — by  design,  on 
profession— doubtfully  about  the  happiness  of  the  future 
in  some  respects,  yet  I  dare  be  quite  bold  here,  and  feel 
sure,  as  of  my  life  at  this  moment,  that  I  shall  never  do 
that,  .  .) — but  at  present  I  almost  love  even  the  apprehen- 
sion that  I  may  be  found  out  too  useless,  too  unworthy  in 
the  end ;  let  it  be  said  so,  since  I  feel  it  so,  my  own  Ba !  I 
love  this,  because  your  dear  love  seems  fit  to  cover  any  im- 
perfection of  mine:  I  dare  say  you  do  not  see  them,  as  you 
say — but  you  will  perhaps,  and  then  I  trust  to  the  love 
wholly.  I  want  forms,  ways,  of  expressing  my  devotion 
to  you— but  such  as  I  am,  all  is  yours. 

I  will  write  more  to-morrow — the  stupid  head  will  not 
be  quiet  to-day — my  mother's  is  sadly  affected  too — it  is 
partly  my  fault  for  reading  ...  a  state  to  be  proud  of ! 
Don't  let  my  frankness  do  me  wrong,  however, — the  incon- 
venience is  very  little,  but  I  was  desired  to  tell  you,  was  I 
not?     I  shall  go  out  presently  and  get  well. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  199 

Are  you  out  to-day,  beloved?  It  is  very  warm;  be  care- 
ful like  the  dearest  Ba  you  are !  And  kiss  me  as  I  kiss 
you  .  .  all  except  the  adoration  which  is  mine  indefeas- 
ibly. 

May  God  bless  you  ever  for  your  very  own. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Night. 
[Post-mark,  June  3,  1846.] 

My  own  dearest  who  are  never  to  offend  me! — And, 
true,  that  is — because  I  have  tried,  before  now,  to  be  of- 
fended, and  could  not,  .  .  being  under  a  charm.  So  it  is 
not  my  fault  but  yours,  that  never  you  see  me  angry. 

But  your  head,  my  head  .  .  is  it  better,  dearest,  by 
this  time,  or  is  it  ringing  and  aching  even,  under  the 
crashing  throat-peals  of  Mr.  Landor's  laughter?  he- 
laughs,  I  remember  like  an  ogre — he  laughs  as  if  laughter 
could  kill,  and  he  knew  it,  thinking  of  an  enemy.  May  it 
do  his  friends  no  harm  to-night!  How  I  think  of  you, 
and,  in  every  thought,  love  you !  Yes,  surely  I  can  love 
you  as  if  I  were  worthier !  and  better  perhaps  than  if  /were 
better,  .  .  though  that  may  sound  like  a  riddle.  And 
dear  dearest,  why  do  you  talk  of  your  faults  so?  It  is  not 
at  all  gracious  of  you  indeed.  You  are  on  a  high  hill 
above  me  where  I  cannot  reach  your  hand — (in  the  myths, 
be  it  understood)  and  you  sigh  and  say  querulously  .  .  . 
'By  and  bye  I  may  have  to  take  a  step  down  lower.' 
Now  is  that  gracious  of  you,  or  worthy  of  your  usual  chiv- 
alry ?  You  ought  to  be  glad,  on  the  contrary,  to  be  so  much 
nearer  me — !  in  the  myths,  be  it  understood !  For  out  of 
the  myths  we  are  near  enough,  as  near  as  two  hearts  can 
be,  .  .  I  believe  .  .  I  trust ! 

You  will  not  mistake  what  I  said  to  you  this  morning 
my  own  beloved — you  will  not?  My  promise  to  you  was 
to  place  the  decision  in  your  hands — and  my  desire  is  sim- 
ply that  you  should  decide  according  to  your  judgment 


200   THE  LETTEES  OF  KOBEET  BROWNING     [June  3 

and  understanding  .  .  I  do  not  say,  your  affections,  this 
time.  Now  it  has  struck  me  that  you  have  a  sort  of 
instinct  .  . 

But  no — I  shall  not  write  on  that  subject  to-night. 
Rather  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  been  doing  to-day  to 
be  so  very,  very  tired.  To-day  I  paid  my  first  visit— not 
to  Mr.  Kenyon  but  to  an  older  friend  than  even  he — to 
Miss  Trepsack  .  .  learn  that  name  by  heart  .  .  whom  we 
all  of  us  have  called  '  Treppy  '  ever  since  we  could  speak. 
Moreover  she  has  nursed  .  .  tossed  up  .  .  held  on  her 
knee — Papa  when  he  was  an  infant;  the  dearest  friend  of 
his  mother  and  her  equal,  I  believe,  in  age — so  you  may 
suppose  that  she  is  old  now.  Yet  she  can  outwalk  my 
sisters,  and  except  for  deafness,  which,  dear  thing,  she 
carefully  explains  as  '  a  mere  nervous  affection, ' — is  as 
young  as  ever.  But  she  calls  us  all  '  her  children '  .  . 
and  I,  you  are  to  understand,  am  '  her  child, '  par  excel- 
lence .  .  her  acknowledged  darling  and  favourite, — perhaps 
because  tenderly  she  thinks  it  right  to  carry  on  the  love  of 
her  beloved  friend,  whom  she  lived  with  to  the  last.  Once 
she  saw  you  in  the  drawing-room — and  you  perhaps  saw 
her.  She  dines  here  every  Sunday,  and  on  the  other  days 
of  course  often,  and  has  the  privilege  of  scolding  every- 
body in  the  house  when  she  is  out  of  humour,  and  of  being 
'  coaxed '  by  slow  degrees  back  into  graciousness.  So, 
she  had  full  right  to  have  me  on  my  first  visit— had  she 
not?  and  the  goodness  and  kindness  and  funniness  of  the 
reception  were  enough  to  laugh  and  cry  over.  First  .  . 
half  way  up-stairs,  I  found  a  chair,  to  sit  and  rest  on. 
Then  the  windows  were  all  shut  up,  because  I  liked  it 
so  in  my  room.  And  then,  for  occulter  reasons,  a  feast 
was  spread  for  Arabel  and  Flush  and  me,  which  made  me 
groan  in  the  spirit,  and  Flush  wag  his  tail,  to  look  upon 
.  .  ice  cream  and  cakes,  which  I  was  to  taste  and  taste  in 
despite  of  all  memories  of  dinner  an  hour  before  .  .  and 
cherrybrandy  !  !  !  which  I  had  to  taste  too,  .  .  just  then 
saved  alive  by  an  oath,  on  Arabel' s  part,  that  I  was  '  bet- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  201 

ter  without  it. '  Think  of  dear  Treppy  ! — of  all  the  kind- 
ness, and  fondness!  Almost  she  kissed  me  to  pieces  as 
the  '  darlingest  of  children. '  So  I  am  glad  I  went — and 
so  is  Flush,  who  highly  approves  of  that  class  of  hospi- 
table attentions,  and  wishes  it  were  the  way  of  the  world 
every  day.  But  I  am  tired!  so  tired!  The  visiting  is  a 
new  thing. 

It  is  an  old  one  that  I  should  write  such  long  letters. 
If  I  am  tired,  you  might  retort  with  the  Ed  io  anche ! — 
Yet  you  will  not,  because  you  are  supernaturally  good; 
and  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  ever  shall  be,  you  say ! 

But  will  you  explain  to  me  some  day  why  you  are  sorry 
for  Italy  having  been  mentioned  between  us,  and  why  you 
would  rather  prefer  Nova  Zembla?  So  as  to  kill  me  the 
faster,  is  it  ? 

Your  JElian  says  that  the  oldest  painters  used  to  write 
under  a  tree,  when  they  painted  one,  '  This  is  a  tree. '  So 
/  must  do,  I  sudden^  remember,  under  my  jests  .  .  I 
being,  it  would  appear,  as  bad  an  artist  in  jesting,  as  they 
were  in  painting.  Therefore  .  .  see  the  last  line  of  the 
last  paragraph  .  .   '  This  is  a  jest.' 

And  this  is  the  earnest  thing  of  all  .  .  that  I  love  you 
as  I  can  love — and  am  for  ever  .  .  living  and  dying  .  . 

Your  own — 

Take  care  of  the  head,  I  entreat !  and  say  how  you  are ! 
and  how  your  mother  is !  I  am  grieved  to  hear  of  that 
relapse  1 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  3,  1846.  J 

I  will  tell  you,  dearest:  your  good  is  my  good,  and 
your  will  mine ;  if  you  were  convinced  that  good  would  be 
promoted  by  our  remaining  as  we  are  for  twenty  years  in- 
stead of  one,  I  should  endeavour  to  submit  in  the  end  .  . 
after  the  natural  attempts  to  find  out  and  remove  the  imag- 


202  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [June  3 

ined  obstacle.  If,  as  you  seem  to  do  here,  you  turn  and 
ask  about  my  good — yours  being  supposed  to  be  uninflu- 
enced by  what  I  answer  .  .  then,  here  is  my  tkuth  on  that 
subject,  in  that  view, — my  good  for  myself.  Every  day 
that  passes  before  that  day  is  one  the  more  of  hardly  en- 
durable anxiety  and  irritation,  to  say  the  least;  and  the 
thought  of  another  year's  intervention  of  hope  deferred — 
altogether  intolerable !  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  in  that 
year — or  that  you  can  do — to  forward  our  object?  Any- 
thing impossible  to  be  done  sooner?     If  not— 

You  may  misunderstand  me  now  at  first,  dear,  dear- 
est Ba:  at  first  I  sate  quietly,  you  thought;  do  I  live 
quietly  now,  do  you  think?  Ought  I  to  show  the  evi- 
dence of  the  unselfishness  I  strive,  at  least,  to  associate 
with  my  love,  by  coolly  informing  you  '  what  would 
please  me.' 

But  I  will  not  say  more,  you  must  know  .  .  and  I  seem 
to  know  that  this  question  was  one  of  Ba's  old  questions  .  . 
a  branch-licence,  perhaps,  of  the  original  inestimable  one, 
that  charter  of  my  liberties,  by  which  I  am  empowered  to 
'  hold  myself  unengaged,  unbound  '  &c.  &c. 

Good  Heaven;  I  would  not, — even  to  save  the  being 
asked  such  questions, — have  played  the  horseleech  that 
cries  'give,  give,'  in  Solomon's  phrase — 'Do  you  let  me 
see  you  once  a  week?  Give  me  a  sight  once  a  day ! — May 
I  dare  kiss  you?    Let  me  marry  you  to-morrow ! ' 

But  to  the  end,  the  very  end,  I  am  yours :  God  knows 
I  would  not  do  you  harm  for  worlds — worlds  !  I  may  easily 
mistake  what  is  harm  or  not.  I  will  ask  your  leave  to 
speak — at  your  foot,  my  Ba :  I  would  not  have  dared  to 
take  the  blessing  of  kissing  your  hand,  much  less  your  lip, 
but  that  it  seemed  as  if  I  was  leading  you  into  a  mistake — 
as  did  happen — and  that  you  might  fancy  I  only  felt  a 
dreamy,  abstract  passion  for  a  phantom  of  my  own  creat- 
ing out  of  your  books  and  letters,  and  which  only  took 
your  name.  .  .  Tliat  once  understood,  the  rest  you  shall 
give  me.    In  every  event,  I  am  your  own. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  203 

12  o'clock. — I  thought  another  letter  might  arrive.  This 
must  go  as  we  shall  set  off  presently  to  Mr.  Kenyon's. 

I  did  understand  the  question  about  my  sister.  I  mean, 
that  you  felt  somewhat  so,  incredible  as  it  seems — only 
I  believe  all  you  say,  all — to  the  letter,  the  iota.  Think  of 
that,  whenever  I  might  ask  and  do  not — or  speak,  and  am 
silent  .  .  but  I  am  getting  back  to  the  question  discussed 
above,  which  I  ought  not  to  do — understand  me,  dearest 
dearest !  See  me,  open  the  eyes,  the  dear  eyes,  and  see  the 
love  of  your  B. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday — 5.  p.m. 
[Post-mark,  June  4,  1846.] 

Then  let  it  be  as  we  meant  it  should  be.  And  do  you 
forgive  me,  my  own,  if  I  have  teazed  you  .  .  vexed  you. 
Do  I  not  always  tell  you  that  you  are  too  good  for  me? 

Yet  the  last  of  my  intentions  was,  this  time,  to  doubt 
of  your  attachment  for  me.  Believe  that.  I  will  write 
to-night  more  fully — but  never  can  be  more  than  at  this 
moment 

Your 

Ba. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  June  4,  1846.] 

Nothing  at  all  had  it  to  do  with  your  Magna  Charta, 
beloved,  that  question  of  mine.  After  you  were  gone  the 
other  day  and  I  began  turning  your  words  over  and  over, 
.  .  (sol  make  hay  of  them  to  feed  the  horses  of  the  sun !) 
it  struck  me  that  you  had  perhaps  an  instinct  of  common 
sense,  which,  with  a  hand  I  did  not  see  and  a  voice  I  could 
not  hear,  drew  you  perhaps.  So  I  thought  I  wrould  ask. 
For  after  all,  this  is  rather  a  serious  matter  we  are  upon, 
and  if  you  think  that  you  are  not  to  have  your  share 
of  responsibility  .  .  that  you  are  not  to  consider  and 


204  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [June  4 

arrange  and  decide,  and  perform  your  own  part*  .  .  you 
are  as  much  mistaken  as  ever  i"  was.  '  Judge  what  I 
say.'  For  my  part,  I  have  done,  it  seems  to  me,  nearly 
as  much  as  I  can  do.  I  do  not,  at'  least,  seem  to  myself 
to  have  any  power  to  doubt  even,  of  the  path  to  choose  for 
the  future.  If  for  any  reason  you  had  seen  wisdom  in  de- 
lay, it  would  have  been  a  different  thing — and  the  seeing 
was  a  possible  thing,  you  will  admit.  I  did  not  ask  you  if 
you  desired  a  delay,  but  if  you  saw  a  reason  for  it.  In  the 
meantime  I  was  absolutely  yours,  I  remembered  thor- 
oughly, .  .  and  the  question  went  simply  to  enquire  what 
you  thought  it  best  to  do  with  your  own. 

For  me  I  agree  with  your  view — I  never  once  thought 
of  proposing  a  delay  on  my  own  account.  We  are  stand- 
ing on  hot  scythes,  and  because  we  do  not  burn  in  the  feet, 
by  a  miracle,  we  have  no  right  to  count  on  the  miracle's 
prolongation.  Then  nothing  is  to  be  gained — and  every- 
thing may  be  lost — and  the  sense  of  mask-wearing  for  an- 
other year  would  be  suffocating.  This  for  me.  And  for 
yourself,  I  shall  not  be  much  younger  or  better  otherwise, 
I  suppose,  next  year.  I  make  no  motion,  then,  for  a  delay, 
further  than  we  have  talked  of,  .  .  to  the  summer's  end. 

My  good  .  .  happiness!  Have  I  any  that  did  not 
come  from  you,  that  is  not  in  you,  that  you  should  talk 
of  my  good  apart  from  yours?  I  shudder  to  look  back  to 
the  days  when  you  were  not  for  me.  Was  ever  life  so  like 
death  before?  My  face  was  so  close  against  the  tomb- 
stones, that  there  seemed  no  room  even  for  the  tears.  And 
it  is  unexampled  generosity  of  yours,  that,  having  done  all 
for  me,  you  should  write  as  you  always  do,  about  my  giv- 
ing .  .  giving !  Among  the  sons  of  men  there  is  none  like 
you  as  I  believe  and  know,  .  .  and  every  now  and  then 
declare  to  my  sisters. 

Dearest,  if  I  vexed  you,  teazed  you,  by  that  question 
which  proved  unnecessary  .  .  forgive  me !  Had  you  un- 
comfortable thoughts   in  the  gardens  to-day?     Perhaps! 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  205 

And  I  could  not  smooth  them  away,  though  I  drew  as  near 
as  I  dared  .  .  though  I  was  in  a  carriage  at  seven  o'clock, 
running  a  mystical  circle  round  your  tents  and  music. 
Did  you  feel  me,  any  more  than  if  I  were  a  '  quick  spider, ' 
I  wonder. 

Henrietta  and  Arabel  were  going  to  spend  the  evening 
with  cousins  of  ours,  and  as  the  carriage  waited  for  the 
plaiting  of  Henrietta's  hair,  or  the  twisting  of  the  ringlets, 
Arabel  said  to  me  '  Will  you  go  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour?  ' 
And  in  a  minute,  we  were  off  .  .  she  and  Flush  and  Liz- 
zie and  I.  Never  did  I  expect  again  to  see  so  many  peo- 
ple— but  I  thought  of  one  so  much  that  my  head  was  kept 
from  turning  round — and  we  drove  once  round  the  '  inner 
circle,'  so  called,  and  looked  up  to  Mr.  Kenyon's  windows 
— and  there,  or  there,  you  were,  certainly ! — and  either 
there,  or  there,  you  were  being  disquieted  in  your  thoughts 
by  me,  as  certainly  !  Ah  forgive  me.  After  all,  .  .  listen 
.  .  I  love  you  with  the  fulness  of  my  nature.  Nothing  of 
all  this  unspeakable  goodness  and  tenderness  is  lost  on  me 
.  .  I  catch  on  my  face  and  hands  every  drop  of  all  this 
dew. 

So  now  .  .  you  are  not  teazed?  we  are  at  one  again, 
and  may  talk  of  outside  things  again? 

But  first,  I  must  hear  how  the  head  is.  How  is  it,  best 
and  dearest?  And  you  had  my  letter  at  last,  had  you  not? 
Because  I  wrote  it  as  usual,  of  course.  May  God  bless 
you — and  me  as  I  am  altogether  your  own. 

Twice  (observe)  I  have  been  out  to-day — the  first  time, 
walking.     Also,  twice  have  I  written  to  you. 

Say  how  your  mother  is — and  yourself! — • 

George  and  Henrietta  were  asked  to  meet  you  at  Mr. 
Kenyon's — but  only  to-day,  and  too  late  to  forestall  other 
engagements.     Did  you  enjoy  any  of  it?    Tell  me. 


206  THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNItf G      [June  4 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  June  4,  1846.  ] 

'  Vex  me, '  or  '  teaze  me, '  my  own  Ba,  you  cannot.  I 
look  on  it  indeed,  after  a  moment,  as  the  only  natural  ef- 
fect of  your  strange  disbelief  in  yourself,  and  ignorance 
of  our  true  relation  one  to  the  other  by  every  right  and 
reason.  Only,  Ba,  you  are  wrong— doubly, — that  is,  you 
would  be  wrong  if  your  own  estimate  of  your  power  over 
me  were  the  true  one — for, — though  it  is  difficult  for  me 
to  fancy  these  abstractions  and  fantastic  metamorphoses 
(as  how  one  could  feel  without  one's  head,— or  how  I  could 
live  without  the  love  of  you  now  I  have  once  got  it) — yet, 
since  you  make  me,  I  will  fancy  I  love  my  head  and  love 
you  no  longer  .  .  and  then  (which  is  noiv)  now,  do  you 
think  I  am  so  poor  a  creature  as  to  go  on  adding  to  my 
faults,  and  letting  you  gently  down,  as  the  phrase  is,  with 
cowardly  excuses,  '  postponing '  this,  and  '  consenting  to 
delay '  the  other,— and  perhaps  managing  to  get  you  to 
do  the  whole  business  for  me  in  the  end?  I  hope  and 
think  I  should  say  at  once — Oh,  no  more  of  this !  But  see 
how  right  I  was — '  an  instinct,  you  seem  to  see. '  So,  I 
have  been  thinking, — there  are  but  few  topics  of  our  con- 
versation from  which  any  such  impressions  could  arise — 
was  it  that  I  have  asked  more  than  once,  if  you  could 
really  bear  another  winter  in  London,  (in  all  probability 
a  severe  one) — and  again,  if  you  could  get  to  Italy  by  any 
ordinary  means  without  the  same  opposition  you  will  have 
to  encounter  for  my  sake?  .  .  My  Ba,  as  God  knows,  all 
that  was  so  much  pure  trembling  attempting  to  justify  my- 
self for  the  over-greatness  of  the  fortune,  the  excess  of  the 
joy, — if  I  could  but  feel  that  there  was  a  little  of  your  own 
good  in  it  too — that  you  would  gain  that  much  advantage 
at  least  by  my  own  inestimable  advantage !  If  you  knew 
how, — spite  of  all  endeavours, — how  happy  I  have  been — 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  207 

which  is  a  shame  to  confess — but  how  very  happy  to  hear 
that  you  could  not  without  a  degree  of  danger  stay  here — 
could  no  more  easily  leave  England  with  Miss  Bay  ley  than 
with  me!  It  seemed  to  justify  me,  as  I  say.  And  so  of 
'  the  wishing  I  had  not  mentioned  Italy  ' — I  wish  your  will 
to  be  mine,  to  originate  mine,  your  pleasure  to  be  only 
mine.  Expressed  first — it  will  be  my  pleasure  .  .  but  all 
is  wrong  if  you  take  the  effect,  seek  to  know  it,  before  the 
cause.  What  does  it  matter  that  I  should  prefer  Italy  to 
Nova  Zembla?  So,  you  ought  to  have  begun  by  saying  '  we 
will  go  there, '  and  then  my  pleasure  in  obedience  had  been 
naturally  expressed.  Did  I  not  ask  you  whether  you  had 
not,  after  all,  thought  of  going  to  Italy  first — to  Pisa,  or 
Malta, — from  the  very  beginning?  Alioays  to  justify  my- 
self!   Always ! 

But — this  too  is  misunderstood.  Let  me  say  humbly, 
I  should  prefer  to  go  with  you  to  Italy  or  any  place  where 
we  can  live  alone  for  some  little  time,  till  you  can  know 
me,  be  as  sure  of  me  as  of  yourself.  Nor  am  I  so  selfish, 
I  hope,  as  that  (because  my  uttermost  pride  and  privilege 
and  glory  above  all  glories  would  be  to  live  in  your  sick- 
room and  serve  you,) — as  that,  on  that  account,  I  would 
not  rather  see  you  in  a  condition  to  need  none  of  my  ser- 
vice .  .  the  next  thing  to  serving  you,  is  to  be — what  shall 
I  say  ? — served  by  you  .  .  loved  by  you,  made  happy  by 
you — it  is  the  being  an  angel,  though  there  might  be  arch- 
angels — 

And  if  now  you  do  not  understand, — well,  I  kneel  to 
you,  my  Ba,  and  pray  you  to  give  yourself  to  me  in  deed 
as  in  word,  the  body  as  the  heart  and  mind, — and  now! — 
at  any  time, — you  know  what  I  cannot  say,  I  cannot,  I 
think, — if  I  know  myself — love  you  more  than  I  do  .  . 
but  I  shall  always  love  you  thus — and  thus,  in  any  case, 
happen  what  God  may  ordain — 

Your  K. 

I  know  this  is  taking  the  simple  experimental  question 


206   THE  LETTERS  OP  ROBERT  BROWNING       [June  4 

too  seriously  to  heart  .  .  but  such  experiments  touch  at 
the  very  quick  arid  core  of  the  heart  .  .  I  cannot  treat 
them  otherwise — ought  I? 

You  will  see  Miss  Bayley  to-day — Mr.  Kenyon  asked 
if  I  were  going  to  call  to-day  .  .  '  if  not,  Miss  B.  would. ' 

I  have  your  letter  .  .  the  short  note,  not  the  promised 
one  .  .  for  all  this  writing  about  the  question  .  .  but  I 
could  not  merely  say — '  Oh  no,  you  mistake  .  .  I  had 
rather,  upon  the  whole,  not  wait. ' 

Even  now  the  feeling,  in  its  subsiding,  hinders  me  from 
speaking  of  the  delightful  account  of  '  Treppy  '  .  .  whom 
I  remember  now,  perfectly— and  what  comfort  is  in  thy 
dear  note ! 

Bless  you,  my  '  darlingest  creature,' — my  Ba! 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  June  5,  1846.] 

You  are  too  perfect,  too  overcomingly  good  and  ten- 
der— dearest  you  are,  and  I  have  no  words  with  which  to 
answer  you.  There  is  little  wonder  indeed  that  7,  being 
used  so  long  to  the  dark,  should  stumble  and  mistake,  and 
see  men  like  trees  walking — and  yet  I  must  tell  you  that 
I  did  not  mistake  to  the  extent  you  have  set  down  for  me 
.  .  and  that  never  was  I  so  dull,  so  idiotic  and  ungrateful, 
as  to  fancy  you  into  one  '  wishing  to  let  me  down  gently 
with  cowardly  excuses.'  Since  I  first  looked  you  in  the 
face,  and  before  that  day,  I  have  been  incapable  of  defiling 
the  idea  of  you  with  such  an  unworthy  imputation.  And 
surely  what  I  did  fancy,  was  consistent  with  the  fullest 
faith  in  you  and  in  the  completest  verity  of  your  affection 
for  myself.  You  might  have  had  reasons,  surely,  which 
I  did  not  see,  without  aggrieving  me  in  any  fashion. 
So  do  not  make  me  out  too  stupid — it  is  bad  enough  actu- 
ally. Yes — those  questions  you  refer  to,  turned  me  down 
that  path — and  do  tell  me  how  I  could  be  expected  to 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  209 

guess  at  the  real  drift  of  them,  after  having  been  accus- 
tomed to  walk  rather  with  men  than  with  angels !  Ah — 
and  now  even,  that  I  see,  it  makes  me  smile  and  sigh  to- 
gether. To  say  that  I  am  not  worthy,  all  at  once  grows 
too  little  to  say.  No  one  could  be  worthy  of  such  words 
from  you.  You  are  best,  best ! !  How  much  more  do  you 
want  me  to  owe  to  you,  when  I  begin  by  owing  to  you  all 
things,   .   .  the  only  happiness  of  my  life? 

As  to  Italy,  I  thought  of  it  first,  so  I  am  in  no  danger 
of  thinking  that  you  engage  me  as  female  courier  and  com- 
panion .  .  the  feminine  of  what  Mr.  Bezzi  wants  to  be, 
Miss  Bay  ley  told  me  to-day.  So  if  it  is  the  same  thing 
to  you,  we  will  put  off  Nova  Zembla  a  little.  But  how  is 
it  possible  to  jest,  with  this  letter  close  by?  Dearest  of 
all,  believe  that  I  am  grateful  to  you  as  I  ought  to  be  .  . 
penetrated  .  .  touched  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart  with 
the  sense  of  what  you  have  been  to  me  and  are;  dearest 
beloved ! 

So  do  not  reproach  me  with  my  dull  questions,  on  Sat- 
urday. I  won't  ask  them  any  more,  .  .  and  I  did  not 
mean  by  them  the  wickedness  you  thought  .  .  so  now 
let  us  be  tranquil  and  happy  till  the  fine  weather  ends. 
Brightly  it  begins,  does  it  not?  So  hot  it  is  to-day — so 
very  hot  in  this  room !  Miss  Bayley  came  just  as  I  had 
been  out  walking  and  was  tired ;  but  she  talked  and  inter- 
ested me,  and  I  found  out  from  her  that  you  were  not  in 
the  gardens  when  we  drove  round  them,  but  in  the  house 
when  I  looked  up  at  the  windows.  Very  happy  and  agree- 
able you  all  were,  she  said,  at  Mr.  Kenyon's — though 
Mrs.  Jameson  missed  the  flower-show. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Treppy  is  a  Creole — she  would 
say  so  as  if  she  said  she  was  a  Roman.  She  lived,  as  an 
adopted  favourite,  in  the  house  of  my  great  grandfather  in 
Jamaica  for  years,  and  talks  to  the  delight  of  my  brothers, 
of  that '  dear  man '  who,  with  fifty  thousand  a  year,  wore 
patches  at  his  knees  and  elbows,  upon  principle.  Then 
there  are  infinite  traditions  of  the  great  great  grandfather, 
Vol.  II.— H 


210   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING       [June  5 

who  flogged  his  slaves  like  a  divinity :  and  upon  the  beati- 
tude of  the  slaves  as  slaves,  let  no  one  presume  to  doubt, 
before  Treppy.  If  ever  she  sighs  over  the  slaves,  it  is  to 
think  of  their  emancipation.  Poor  creatures,  to  be  eman- 
cipated ! 

May  God  bless  you,  dear  dearest !  Shall  I  ever  be  bet- 
ter, I  wonder,  than  the  torment  of  your  life?  It  is  /who 
wanted  to  be  'justified,'  and  not  you  my  beloved, — except 
as  to  your  good  sense  for  having  made  such  a  choice. 

Such  as  I  am  however,  I  am 

Your  very  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  June  5,  1846.] 

Nor  did  I  mean  so  bad,  dearest  dearest,  as  that  you 
were  suspecting  me  of  that  .  .  Oh  no,  since  '  Scorn  of  me 
(that  "  me  ")  would  recoil  on  you '  .  .  you  would  have  no 
right  to  bear  with  such  a  person  for  a  moment :  but  I  put 
the  broadest  case  possible  to  declare  upon  broadly.  As  I 
would  do  so  if  I  felt  so  .  .  felt  no  love  longer  .  .  so,  in 
due  degree,  I  would  tell  you  frankly  a  fear  or  a  doubt  if 
I  felt  either.  I  thought  you  suspected  me,  perhaps,  of 
being  deficient  in  this  last  point  of  courage:  but  it  was 
not  altogether  so,  — or  if  it  was,  you  shall  doubt  no  more, 
but  believe  the  more  strongly  for  the  future  .  .  let  us  kiss 
on  that  convention,  dearest !  You  see,  I  knew  it  could  not 
but  be  that  .  .  for  if  anything  had  struck  you  as  really  to 
be  gained  by  delay,  you  must  feel  whether  I  should  listen 
to  that  or  no — last  year,  for  instance,  when  you  said  '  let 
us  wait.' 

Ah,  Ba,  my  own,  many  things  are  that  ought  not  to  be 
.  .  and  I  hide  nothing  .  .  cannot  hide  from  you  some 
feelings  .  .  as  that — after  all,  after  all — talk,  and  indeed 
think,  as  one  may — it  is,  let  us  say,  a  pleasant  thing,  at 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABKETT  211 

least,  to  be  able  to  prove  one's  words, — even  one's  lighter 
words.  The  proof  may  justify  some  words,  I  mean,  and 
the  rest,  that  admit  of  no  proof,  get  believed  on  the  score 
of  them, — the  first  words  and  proofs.  I  should  like  to 
prove  a  very,  very  little  .  .  if  I  could  but  do  so  in  turning 
fifty-thousand  a  year,  or  less,  to  some  account  and  build- 
ing Flush  a  house  '  fair  to  see ' — after  which  I  could  go 
on  talking  about  the  longings  never  to  be  satisfied  here  .  . 

Now  this  is  foolish, — so  the  causeless  blame,  if  you 
please,  shall  be  transferred  here  .  .  as  naughty  children 
punished  by  mistake  are  promised  a  remission  of  next 
offence. 

Oh  to-morrow  kisses  all  right  .  .  all  so  right  again, 
dearest!  I  have  so  much  to  say.  Make  me  remember, 
love,  to  tell  you  something  I  have  just  learned  about  Mr. 
Kenyon  which  makes  one — no,  all  is  proper, — he  should 
have  the  money,  and  I  the  admiration  and  love  of  his 
divine  use  of  it :  something  to  love  him  for,  and  he  happy 
that  God  will  reward  it.  Kemember — for  even  that  I 
should  forget  by  you ! 

And  all  has  been  charming  at  Mr.  Kenyon's — Landor's 
dinner,  and  our  flower-show  feast, — I  will  tell  you  to-mor- 
row— and  last  night  I  went  to  Mrs.  Procter's  in  downright 
spirits  ' pour  cause'  (with  my  first  letter  .  .  not  my  sec- 
ond, which  only  arrived  this  morning) — and  I  danced,  to 
put  it  on  record  there  that  I  was  altogether  happy,  and 
saw  Mrs.  Jameson,  and  the  Countess  Hahn-Hahn,  and 
Milnes  and  the  Howitts  and  others  in  a  multitude, — and 
I  got  to  this  house  door  at  4-o' clock,  with  the  birds  sing- 
ing loud  and  the  day  bright  and  broad — and  my  head  is 
quite  well, — as  my  mother's  is  better,  I  hope — quite  well, 
I  am  at  this  minute.  For  the  rest,  the  news  of  your  two 
exits  and  entrances  in  one  day  .  .  oh,  thank  you,  thank 
the  golden  heart  of  my  own,  own  Ba !  whom  I  shall  see 
to-morrow,  but  can  .  .  how  I  can  kiss  her  now — being 
her  own 

R.  B. 


212   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [Junk  6 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  June  6,  1846. ] 

This  is  the  first  word  I  have  written  out  of  my  room, 
these  five  years,  I  think  .  .  if  I  dare  count  anything  be- 
yond two  .  .  for  I  do  know  that  one  comes  after  two  .  . 
(now  just  see  what  I  have  written !)  that  two  comes  after 
one,  I  meant  to  say,  .  .  as  well  as  a  mathematician.  I 
am  writing  now  in  the  back  drawing-room,  half  oat  of  the 
window  for  air,  driven  out  of  my  own  territory  by  the 
angel  of  the  sun  this  morning.  Oh — it  is  so  hot — and  the 
darkness  does  not  help  when  the  lack  is  just  of  air.  There 
is  a  thick  mist  lacquered  over  with  light — it  is  cauldron- 
heat,  rather  than  fire-heat.  So  different  in  the  country  it 
must  be!  Well,  everybody  being  at  church  or  chapel,  I 
knew  I  could  have  this  room  to  myself,  without  fear  even 
of  the  dreadful  knocker  .  .  more  awful  to  me  than  the 
famous  knocks  which  used  to  visit  the  Wesley  family — so 
here  I  curl  up  my  feet  '  more  meo  '  on  the  settee,  and  help 
to  keep  the  sabbath  by  resting  upon  you.  Would  Miss 
Goldsmid  call  it  as  '  profane  '  as  anything  in  your  poems? 
But  it  will  not  be  more  profane  for  that — as  I  could  prove 
if  we  wanted  proofs — only  we  do  not. 

Such  flowers  as  you  brought  me  yesterday — such  roses ! 
The  roses  are  best,  as  coming  from  your  garden !  When 
I  began  to  arrange  them,  I  thought  I  never  saw  such  splen- 
did roses  anywhere — they  are  more  beautiful  than  what 
you  brought  last  year  surely  !  It  seems  so  to  me.  Dear- 
est, how  did  you  get  home,  and  how  are  you?  and  how  is 
your  mother?  Remember  to  answer  my  questions,  if  you 
please. 

After  you  were  gone  I  received  from  Mr.  Lough  a  very 
gracious  intimation  that  if  I  would  go  to  see  his  studio, 
his  statue  of  the  Queen  and  other  works,  he  would  take 
care  that  no  creature  should  be  present,  he  would  uncover 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  213 

all  the  works  and  provide  a  clear  solitude  for  me — lie 
'  would  not  do  it  for  a  Duchess, '  lie  said,  but  lie  '  would 
for  me '  /  Now  what  am  I  to  say.  My  sisters  tell  me  that 
I  can  go  quite  easily.  The  place  is  very  near,  and  there 
are  no  stairs.  Well,  I  think  I  must  go.  It  is  very  kind 
and  considerate,  and  there  would  be  a  pleasure,  of  course. 
Do  you  know  that  statues  have  more  power  over  me  than 
all  the  pictures  and  all  the  colours  thereof  which  the  world 
can  show?  Mr.  Kenyon  told  me  once  that  it  was  a  pure 
affectation  of  mine  to  say  so — and  for  my  own  part  I  could 
not  see  for  a  long  while  what  was  the  reason  of  a  most  un- 
affected preference.  I  think  I  see  it  now.  Painting  flat- 
ters the  senses  and  makes  the  Ideal  credible  in  a  vulgar 
way.  But  with  sculpture  it  is  different — and  there  is  a 
grand  audacity  in  the  power  of  an  Ideal  which,  appealing 
directly  to  the  Senses,  and  to  the  coarsest  of  them,  the 
Touch,  as  well  as  the  Sight,  yet  forces  them  to  receive 
Beauty  through  the  door  of  an  Abstraction  which  is  a 
means  abhorrent  to  them.  Have  I  written  what  I  mean, 
I  wonder,  or  do  you  understand  it,  without?  Then  there 
is  a  great  deal,  of  course,  in  that  grand  white  repose! 
Like  the  Ideas  of  the  Platonic  system,  these  great  sculp- 
tures seem — when  looked  at  from  a  distance. 

When  you  were  gone  yesterday,  and  I  had  had  my 
coffee  and  put  on  my  bonnet,  I  went,  with  the  intention  of 
walking  out,  as  far  as  the  drawing-room,  and  there,  failed : 
not  even  with  your  recommendation  in  my  ears,  beloved, 
could  I  get  any  further.  Notwithstanding  all  my  flatteries 
(meaning  the  flatteries  of  me !)  I  was  not  at  best  and  strong- 
est, yesterday,  nor  am  even  to-day,  though  it  is  nothing  to 
mind  or  to  mention — only  I  think  I  shall  not  try  to  walk 
out  in  this  heat  even  to-day,  and  yesterday  it  seemed  im- 
possible. So  I  came  back  and  lay  on  my  own  sofa,  and 
presently  began  to  read  '  Le  Oomte  de  Monte  Cristo, '  the 
new  book  by  Dumas,  (observe  how  I  waste  my  time — while 
you  learn  how  not  to  fortify  cities,  out  of  Machiavelli !)  and 
really  he  amuses  me  with  his  '  Monte  Cristo '  .  .  six  vol- 


214  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [June  6 

umes  I  am  glad  to  see— lie  is  tlie  male  Scheherazade  cer- 
tainly. Now  that  the  hero  is  safe  in  a  dungeon  (of  the 
Chateau  d'lf)  it  will  be  delightful  to  see  how  he  will  get 
out — somebody  knocks  at  the  wall  already.  Only  the  nar- 
rative is  not  always  very  clear  to  me,  inasmuch  as,  when  I 
read,  I  unconsciously  interleave  it  with  such  thoughts  of 
you  as  make  very  curious  cross  readings  .  .  j'avais  cru 
remarquer  quelques  infidelites  .  .  he  really  seems  to  love 
me — l'homme  n'est  jamais  qu'un  homme  .  .  never  was 
any  man  like  him — ses  traits  etaient  bouleverses  .  .  the 
calmest  eyes  I  ever  saw  .  .  So,  Dumas  or  Machiavelli,  it 
is  of  the  less  consequence  what  I  read,  I  suppose,  while  I 
apply  so  undestractedly. 

May  God  bless  you,  ever  beloved !  I  think  of  you,  I 
love  you — I  forgot  again  your  '  Strafford  '■ — Mr.  Forster's 
'  Strafford, '  I  beg  his  pardon  for  not  attributing  to  him 
other  men's  works.  Not  that  I  mean  to  be  cross — not  to 
him  even. 

I  am  your  own. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  June  8,  1846.] 

One  thing  you  said  yesterday  which  I  want  to  notice 
and  protest  against,  my  Ba — you  charged  me  with  speak- 
ing depreciatingly  of  myself  because  you  had  set  the  ex- 
ample— '  I  should  not  have  thought  of  it  but  that  you 
began.'  Now  I  am  tired,  just  at  this  moment,  and  sub- 
missive altogether,  and  hopeful  besides,  on  the  whole, — so 
I  will  let  you  off  with  a  simple  but  firmest  of  protests, — I 
did  not  think  of  imitating  you,  but  spoke  as  I  felt  and 
knew, — and  feel  and  know  still.  The  world,  generally,  will 
inform  you  of  this  in  its  own  good  time  and  way,  so  .  . 
taceo!  (The  last  opinion  of  the  world's  on  the  respective 
value  of  people  and  people,  is  unhappily  too  decisive. 
■  And,  after  all,  Mr.  LaDgton  is  quite  as  good  as  the  Duke's 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  215 

daughter  .  .  for  he  will  have  full  twenty  thousand  a 
year ! ')  I  suspect  I  was  going  to  turn  a  pretty  phrase 
and  tell  you  I  have  only  a  heart,  as  the  play -books  pre- 
scribe,— when  the  said  heart  pricks  me  as  if  I  reserved 
something — so  I  will  confess  to  owning  a  '  forehead  and 
an  eye ' — one  advantage  over  Pope,  to  whom  folks  used 
to  remark  '  Sir,  you  have  an  eye  ' — and  no  more — whereas 
yesterday  evening  after  leaving  Ba,  while  I  settled  myself 
in  the  corner  of  our  omnibus  to  think  of  her,  a  spruce 
gentleman  stretched  over,  and  amid  the  rumbling  begged 
my  pardon  for  being  forced  to  remark  that  my  forehead 
and  eye  interested  him  deeply,  phrenologist  as  he  was; 
and  he  was  sure  I  must  needs  be  somebody  .  .  besides  a 
passenger  to  Greenwich !  So  if  Ba  will  trust  in  phrenol- 
ogy ! — I  will  at  least  not  be  unkind  to  her  as  to  the  learned 
man — who  left  the  vehicle  in  due  time,  lamenting  that  in 
return  for  his  own  confidence  and  pink  bill  ('  Mr.  Hamil- 
ton, phrenologist  and  lecturer '  &c.  &c.)  I  would  not  break 
my  obstinate  reserve  and  augustly  pronounce  '  Am  I  a 
Beefeater  now?  ' 

Assez  de  sottises :  Ba,  my  Ba,  I  am  happy  in  you  beyond 
hope  of  expression — you  know  how  happy  .  .  And  have 
not  I  some  shade  of  a  right, — I  who  loved  the  dear,  dear 
pale  cheek  and  the  thin  hand, — a  right  to  be  blessed  in 
the  wonders  I  see  .  .  so  long  as  I  continue  to  be  thankful 
to  God  whose  direct  doing  I  know  it  to  be :  how  can  I  ever 
doubt  the  rest  .  .  the  so  easy  matters  remaining — I  will 
not  doubt  more,  I  think. 

Tell  me,  write  of  yourself,  love  :  remember  the  fierce 
heat  .  .  and  never  go  up  the  long  stairs — or,  at  least,  rest 
at  proper  intervals.  I  think  of  the  Homeric  stone  heaved 
nearly  to  the  hill-top  and  then !  .  .  An  accident  now  would 
be  horrible, —think,  and  take  every  precaution — because  it 
is  my  life,  (if  that  will  influence  you)  my  whole  happiness 
you  are  carrying  safely  or  letting  slip.  May  God  over- 
watch  all  and  care  for  us ! 

Good  bye,  best  beloved, — I  fear  I  ought  to  go  to  Mrs. 


216  THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEBT  BEOWNING     [June  8 

Jameson's  to-night:  there  is  a  breakfast  engagement  for 
Wednesday,  to  meet  this  and  the  other  notable;  and  a 
simple  '  at  home  '  promised  to  anybody  calling  this  even- 
ing— and  my  pride  won't  let  me  accept  one,  nor  my  liking 
to  Mrs.  J.  suffer  me  to  refuse  both  .  .  Yet  the  fatigue! 
I  have  been  at  church  to-day,  seeing  people  faint. 

Your  own,  your  own  R. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  June  8,  1846.] 

My  '  recommendation '  to  dearest  Ba  was  properly  in- 
terpreted by  her  when  she  regarded  the  spirit  and  not  the 
letter  of  it. 

The  day  was  hot — even  I  thought  who  thrive  in  heat — 
and  yesterday  you  did  well  to  keep  the  house — but  last 
night's  rain,  and  this  comfort  of  cloudiness  may  allow  you 
to  resume  the  exercise, — only  with  all  ease,  darling !  Mrs. 
Jameson  told  me  she  called  the  other  day  on  Miss  Bar- 
rett, and  was  informed  that  lady  was  '  walking  before  her 
door ' — for  I  went  last  night,  and  deserved  to  be  amused, 
perhaps,  for  the  effort,  .  .  and  so  I  was,  I  never  liked  our 
friend  as  I  now  like  her,  I  more  than  like  the  good  nature 
and  good  feeling  and  versatility  of  ready  intelligence  and 
quick  general  sympathy.  She  is  to  see  you  to-day.  She 
told  this  to  a  Miss  Kindersley  who  had  been  reading  the 
'  Drama  of  Exile  '  to  her  complete  delight — but  in  listen- 
ing silently, — and  after,  when  Mrs.  J.  obligingly  turned 
and  said  '  How  I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to  Miss 
Barrett  .  .  did  you  ever  see  her?  '  .  .  to  which  I  answered 
in  the  old  way,  '  that  nobody,  as  she  knew,  saw  you. '  At 
all  these  times  did  not  I  feel  the  '  mask  '  you  speak  of !  I 
am,  fortunately,  out  of  the  way  of  enquiries  .  .  but  if  the 
thing  were  of  constant  occurrence,  it  would  be  intolerable. 
Shall  it  indeed  end  soon?  May  I  count  by  months,  by 
weeks?  It  is  not  safe — beginning  to  write  on  this  subject 
—I  can  do  nothing  moreover. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  217 

Well,  Lough  has  some  good  works,  and  you  will  be 
pleased  I  daresay  :  but  of  all  things,  hold  him  to  his  bond 
of  maintaining  the  strictest  privacy — for  Mr.  Powell  or  his 
kith  and  kin  go  there,  and  his  impudence  and  brazen  in- 
sensibility are  dreadful  to  encounter  beyond  all  belief.  He 
would  book-make  about  '  the  meeting, '  and  in  his  ordi- 
nary talk,  be  supplied  with  a  subject  to  tell  lies  about  for 
the  next  year  or  two, — unless  he  got  a  lesson  earlier.  But 
Lough  will  understand  and  keep  his  promise,  no  doubt,  if 
you  exact  it  strictly. 

My  mother  is  decidedly  better,  .  .  I  am  quite  well — ■ 
considering  Thursday  is  so  far  off ! — considering  the  end 
of  summer  is  so  far  off.  Would  it  be  profane  to  think  of 
that  lament  .  .  '  the  Summer  is  ended  and  we  are  not 
saved '  ? 

I  am  obliged  to  leave  off  here — I  love  you  ever  my  best 

dearest,  own  Ba ! 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  9,  1846.] 

The  stars  threaten  you  with  a  long  letter  to-day,  it 
seems,  for  I  stretch  out  my  hand  and  take  blindly  the  larg- 
est sheet.  Dearest,  I  have  been  driving  out  before  your 
letter  came  .  .  and  to  Rampstead!  think  of  that.  And 
see  the  proof  of  it — this  grew  in  the  hedges  when  the  sun 
rose  to-day.  We  had  a  great  branch  gathered,  and  '  this 
was  of  it,'  starred  over  with  dog-roses.  I  did  in  the  morn- 
ing long  for  air,  through  the  suffocation  yesterday,  and 
the  walking  being  better  for  another  day,  my  sisters  per- 
suaded me  into  the  carriage.  Only  I  wanted  to  wait  for 
your  letter,  my  letter,  and  could  not — it  did  not  come  by 
the  usual  early  post,  and  the  carriage  was  here  before  it 
.  .  so  I  had  to  go,  thinking  of  it  all  the  way,  and  having 
it  on  my  return  ready  to  gladden  me.  How  you  make  me 
laugh  with  your  phrenologist !     '  For  the  interests  of  sci- 


218   THE  LETTEES  OF  KOBEET  BEOWNING    [June  9 

ence '  you  should  have  given  your  name.  Then,  would 
have  come  the  whole  history  in  the  next  lecture,  .  .  how 
'  Once  in  an  omnibus  he  met  an  individual  with  a  forehead 
and  eyes  of  mark,  and  knew  him  at  a  glance  for  the  first 
poet  of  the  age.'  It  would  have  made  a  feature  in  the 
lecture,  and  highly  developed,  I  dare  say,  .  .  to  suit  the 
features  in  the  omnibus.  Just  at  the  moment  of  this  ob- 
servation /  too  was  thinking  of  eyes — '  calm  eyes  '  did  I 
say?  Yes,  calm,  serene  .  .  which  was  what  struck  me 
first  of  all,  in  the  look  of  them — was  it  ever  observed  be- 
fore, I  wonder?  The  most  serene  spiritual  eyes,  I  ever 
saw — I  thought  that  the  first  day  I  saw  you.  They  may 
be  called  by  other  names  beside,  but  they  shall  not  lose 
the  name  I  then  gave  them.  Now  to  bear  with  the  hor- 
rible portrait  in  the  matter  of  the  eyes,  is  a  hard  thing — 
Mr.  Howitt  must  have  Ms  shut  nearly,  I  think.  The  hair 
is  like — and  nothing  else.  The  mouth,  the  form  of  the 
cheek,  one  is  as  unlike  as  the  other.  And  the  character  of 
the  whole  is  most  unlike  of  the  whole — it  is  a  vulgarized 
caricature — and  I  only  wonder  how  I  could  have  fastened 
it  inside  of  my  '  Paracelsus  '  frontispiece-fashion.  When 
it  was  hung  up  and  framed,  I  did  not  know  you  face 
to  face,  remember.  Mr.  Kenyon  told  me  it  was  '  rather 
like. '  But  always  and  uninstructed  I  seemed  to  know  that 
it  was  not  like  you  in  some  things  .  . 

Monday  Evening. — Observe  how  the  sentence  breaks 
off !  While  I  was  writing  it,  came  a  '  tapping,  tapping  at 
the  chamber  door,'  as  sings  my  dedicator  Edgar  Poe. 
Flush  barked  vociferously ;  I  threw  down  the  pen  and  shut 
up  the  writing  case,  .  .  and  lo,  Mrs.  Jameson !  I  suppose 
she  did  not  guess  that  I  was  writing  to  you.  She  brought 
me  the  engraviugs  of  Xanthian  marbles,  and  also  her  new 
essays  .  .  and  was  very  kind  as  usual,  and  proposed  to 
come  some  day  next  week  with  a  carriage  to  take  me  out, 
— and  all  this  time,  how  we  treat  her !  Will  she  not  have 
a  right  to  complain  of  being  denied  the  degree  of  confi- 
dence we  gave  (.  .  Mr.  Kenyon  gave  for  me  .  .)  to  Miss 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  219 

Bay  ley  ?  Will  she  not  think  hereafter  '  There  was  no  need 
of  their  deceiving  me  ?  '  And  yet  I  doubt  how  to  retreat 
now.  Could  I  possibly  say  to  her  the  next  time  she  speaks 
of  you  .  .  or  could  I  not?  it  would  set  her  on  suspecting 
perhaps.  She  talked  a  little  to-day  of  Italy,  and  plainly 
asked  me  what  thoughts  I  had  of  it, — to  which  I  could 
answer  truthfully  '  No  thoughts,  but  dreams. '  Then  she 
insisted,  '  But  whenever  you  have  thoughts,  you  will  let 
me  know  them?  You  will  not  be  in  Italy  when  I  am 
there,  without  my  knowing  it?  And  where  will  you  go — ? 
to  Pisa?  .  .  to  Sienna?  to  Naples?  '  And  she  advised  .  . 
'  Don't  go  where  the  English  are,  in  any  case.'  And  en- 
couraged like  an  oracle,  .  .  '  Remember  that  where  there's 
a  will  there's  a  way  ' — knowing  no  more  what  she  spoke, 
than  a  Pythian  on  the  serpent's  skin. 

Beloved,  you  are  right  in  your  fear  about  Mr.  Lough. 
I  have  decided  not  to  go  there.  Oh,  it  is  best  certainly ; 
and,  quietly  considered,  I  shall  be  happier  as  well  as  safer 
in  not  going.  We  must  walk  softly  on  the  snowdrifts  of 
the  world,  now  that  we  have  got  to  them. 

For  the  rest,  .  .  that  is  for  the  chief  thing  .  .  you 
wrote  foolishly  in  your  first  letter  to-day,  my  beloved, — 
you  can  write  foolishly  on  occasion,  let  me  grant  to  the 
critics.  I  have  just  so  much  logic  as  to  be  able  to  see 
(though  I  am  a  woman)  that  for  me  to  be  too  good  for  you, 
and  for  you  to  be  too  good  for  me,  cannot  be  true  at  once, 
both  ways.  Now  I  could  discern  and  prove,  from  the  be- 
ginning of  the  beginning,  that  you  were  too  good  for  me — 
it  is  too  late  therefore  to  take  up  the  other  argument — the 
handle  of  it  was  broken  last  year. 

Also,  I  do  not  go  to  the  world  to  ask  it  to  appraise  you 
— I  would  fain  leave  to  Robins  the  things  of  Robins.  I 
hope  you  have  repented  all  day  to-day  having  written  so 
foolishly  yesterday.     Even  Robins  would  not  justify  you. 

Dearest,  the  avalanches  are  on  us !  Uncle  and  aunts 
coming  down  in  a  great  crash !  My  uncle  Hedley  comes 
next  week ! — on  the  second  or  third  of  July,  the  eldest  of 


220  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [June  9 

my  aunts,  .  .  from  Paris,  .  .  who  proposes  to  reside  in 
this  house  for  a  week — it  may  be  longer !  and,  still  in  July, 
the  rest  of  the  Hedleys,  I  think ! — everybody  coming,  com- 
ing !  Their  welcome  will  be  somewhat  of  a  ghastly  smile 
from  me — for  indeed  I  cannot  be  quite  delighted,  after  the 
fashion  of  a  thoroughly  dutiful  niece. 

Ah,  never  mind  them !  Nobody  can  change  anything, 
if  you  do  not  change  yourself.  You  have  '  a  right '  .  . 
not  the  '  shadow '  of  one,  but  the  very  right  .  .  to  all  I 
am,  and  to  all  the  life  I  live.  Did  you  not  see  before, 
what  I  have  felt  so  long,  that  indeed  you  have  a  right  to 
me  and  over  me? 

I  am  your  own 

Ba. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  9,  1846.] 

Is  your  letter  '  long,'  my  own  Ba?  I  seem  to  get  to  the 
end,  each  time  I  read  it,  just  as  sorrowfully  soon  as  usual 
— so  much  for  thankfulness !  But  if  Ba  is  not  to  be  '  tall,' 
depend  on  it,  her  letter  shall  not  describe  itself  as  '  long ' 
— though  in  a  sense  nothing  ever  written,  ever  read  by  me, 
drew  such  a  trail  of  light  after  it  as  her  letters — your 
letters,  my  own,  own  love!  While  I  write  this,  my  lips 
rest  on  the  eglantine  .  .  well,  it  shall  be  '  dog-rose '  for 
Flushie's  sake !  You  say  truly  about  the  folly — it  is  very 
foolish,  — when  I  fancy  you  proposing  to  give  me  a  golden 
Papal  rose  and  gift  for  a  King,  instead  of  this !  And  if  1 
feel  this,  why  should  not  you,  and  more  vividly  even?  A 
rose  from  Hampstead!  And  you  bore  the  journey  well? 
You  should  tell  me,  precisely,  detailedly. 

As  for  Lough's  statues  .  .  now,  I  have  said  more  than 
I  meant  if  it  deters  you  from  going  to  see  them !  If  he  will 
abide  strictly  by  his  promise,  there  is  much  to  reward  the 
trouble  of  going. 

Always  remember,  my  Ba,  that  the  secret  is  your  secret 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEKETT  221 

and  not  mine  .  .  that  I  keep  it  while  you  bid  me,  but  that 
you  may  communicate  it  to  whom  you  please,  when  you 
please,  without  waiting  to  apprize  me.  I  should,  I  think, 
have  preferred  telling  Mrs.  Jameson  from  the  beginning 
about  the  mere  visits  .  .  or,  I  don't  know  .  .  by  one  such 
piece  of  frankness  you  only  expose  yourself  to  fifty  new — 
whatever  they  are !  For  there  would  be  so  much  the  more 
talk  about  you, — and  either  the  quick  woman's  wit  and 
discernment  are  to  be  eluded,  or  they  are  not, — foiled  or 
not — and  how  manage  without  .  .  without  those  'particular 
evasions  which  seem  to  degrade  most  of  all?  Miss  Mit- 
ford's  promises  began  the  embarrassment.  In  short  I 
think  the  best  way  in  such  a  case  is  to  tell  all  or  none.  I 
believe  you  might  tell  all  to  Mrs.  Jameson  with  perfect 
safety,  but,  for  her  sake,  I  doubt  the  propriety  .  .  for  it 
would  be  to  introduce  her  forthwith  to  exactly  our  own 
annoyances  with  respect  to  Mr.  Kenyon,  Chorley  &c. 
Once  knowing,  she  cannot  rm-know.  In  any  case,  I 
promise  my  conscience  to  give  her, — and  anybody  else 
that  may  have  a  right  to  it, — a  full  explanation  at  the  ear- 
liest safe  moment  .  .  may  that  be  at  no  great  distance! 
My  own  feeling  is  for  telling  Mr.  Kenyon  .  .  though  you 
would  considerably  startle  me  if  you  answered  '  well,  do  I ' 
But,  of  the  whole  world,  I  seem  only  to  care  for  his  not 
feeling  aggrieved:  oh,  he  will  understand! — and  can,  be- 
cause he  knows  the  circumstances  at  your  house.  Come 
what  will,  I  am  sure  of  you ;  '  if  you  live,  and  are  well ' — 
even  this  last  clause  I  might  exclude ;  it  has  often  been  in 
my  thought  to  tell  you  .  .  only,  dearest,  there  is  always, 
when  I  plan  never  so  dreamily  and  vaguely,  always  an 
understood  submission  the  most  absolute  to  your  own  de- 
sire .  .  but  I  fancied,  that,  in  the  case  of  any  real  obstacle 
arising  so  as  to  necessitate  the  'postponement,'  &c,  I 
should  have  stipulated  .  .  in  the  right  yourself  have  given 
me  .  .  I  should  have  said — '  we  will  postpone  it,  if  you 
will  marry  me  noiv  .  .  merely  as  to  the  form  .  .  but  so  as 
to  enable  me,  if  difficulties  should  thicken,  to  be  by  your 


222  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING      [June  9 

bedside  at  least. '  You  see,  what  you  want  '  to  relieve ' 
me  of,  is  just  what  my  life  should  be  thrice  paid  down  for 
and  cheaply.  How  could  you  ever  be  so  truly  mine  as  so  ? 
Even  the  poor  service  does  not '  part  us  '  before  '  death ' 

'  till  sickness  do  us  part ! ' 

But  there  will  be  no  sickness  and  all  happiness,  I  trust 
in  God !  Dear,  dear  Ba,  I  love  you  wholly  and  for  ever — ■ 
true  as  I  kiss  your  rose,  and  will  keep  it  for  ever.     Bless 

you. 

My  first  letter  '  did  not  reach  you  by  the  first  post 
on  Monday  morning ' — No !  How  should  it  .  .  when  I 
carried  it  to  town  on  Sunday  night  and  went  half  a  mile 
out  of  my  way  to  put  it  in  the  general  post  office  at  the 
corner  of  Oxford  Street ! 

You  know  I  am  to  breakfast  with  Mrs.  Jameson  to- 
morrow— and  perhaps  I  may  make  some  calls  after :  if  any- 
thing keeps  me  in  Town  so  as  to  hinder  the  letter  by  the  8 
o'clock  post,  you  will  know  the  reason  .  and  expect  the 
letter  the  next  morning ;  but  I  will  endeavour  to  get  back 
in  time. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  June  10,  1846.] 

Best,  dearest  beloved,  .  .  would  it  not  be  strange  if 
you  were  not  so  to  me?  How  do  you  think  I  feel,  hearing 
you  say  such  things  .  .  finding  such  thoughts  in  your 
mind?  If  it  is  not  worthy  of  you  to  have  a  burden  set  on 
your  shoulders  and  to  be  forced  into  the  shadow  of  dis- 
quietudes not  your  own,  yet  this  divine  tenderness  is 
worthy  of  you  .  .  worthy  of  your  nature;  as  I  know  and 
recognise!  May  God  help  me  to  thank  you,  for  I  have 
not  a  word. 

Practically  however,  see  how  your  proposal  would 
work.  It  could  not  work  at  all,  unless  circumstances  were 
known— and  if  they  were  known,  at  the  very  moment  of 
their  being  known  you  would  be  saved,  dearest,  all  the 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  223 

trouble  of  coming  upstairs  to  me,  by  my  being  thrown  out 
of  the  window  to  you  .  .  upon  which,  you  might  certainly 
pick  up  the  pieces  of  me  and  put  them  into  a  bag  and  set 
off  for  Nova  Zembla.  That  would  be  the  event  of  the 
working  of  your  proposition.  Yet  remember  that  I  will 
accede  to  whatever  you  shall  choose — so  think  for  us  both. 
You  know  more  of  the  world  and  have  more  practical  sense 
than  I — and  if  you  did  not,  had  not,  you  may  do  ivJiat  you 
like  with  your  own,  as  surely  as  the  Duke  of  Newcastle 
might. 

For  Mrs.  Jameson,  I  should  never  think  of  telling  her 
'  all ' — I  should  not,  could  not,  would  not !  and  the  gods 
forefend  that  you  should  think  of  telling  Mr.  Kenyon  any 
more.  Now,  listen.  Perfectly  I  understand  your  reasons, 
your  scruples  .  .  what  are  they  to  be  called?  But  I 
promise  to  take  the  blame  of  it.  I  will  tell  dear  Mr.  Ken- 
yon hereafter  that  you  would  have  spoken,  but  that  I  would 
not  let  you — won't  that  do?  won't  it  stop  the  pricking  of 
the  conscience?  Because,  you  see,  I  know  Mr.  Kenyon, 
.  .  and  I  know  perfectly  that  either  he  would  be  unhappy 
himself,  or  he  would  make  us  so.  He  never  could  bear  the 
sense  of  responsibility.  Then,  as  he  told  me  to-day,  and 
as  long  ago  I  knew,  .  .  he  is  '  irresolute, '  timid  in  decid- 
ing. Then  he  shrinks  before  the  daemon  of  the  world — and 
'  what  may  be  said  '  is  louder  to  him  than  thunder.  And 
then  again,  and  worst  of  all,  he  sees  afar  off  casualty 
within  casualty,  and  a  marriage  without  lawyers  would  be 
an  abomination  in  his  sight.  Moreover,  to  discover  our- 
selves to  him,  and  not  submit  to  his  counsels,  would  be  a 
real  offence  .  .  would  it  not?  As  it  is,  it  may  seem 
natural  and  excusable  that  we  two  of  ourselves  should 
poetically  rush  into  a  foolishness — but  if  we  heard  counsel, 
and  rejected  it !  !     Do  you  see?  .  .  . 

He  came  here  to-day,  dear  Mr.  Kenyon,  and  is  to  come 
with  Miss  Bayley  on  Friday,  and  take  me  in  the  carriage 
to  drive,  and  to  see  his  house.  I  must  go,  but  dread  it 
.  .  shrink  from  it — yes,  indeed.     As  for  Mr.  Lough,  how 


224  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     Rune  10 

could  I  have  '  bound  him  with  Styx  nine  times  round 
him?  '  It  is  easier  to  bind  Mrs.  Jameson.  Oh  no!  You 
were  right,  and  I  was  wrong  in  my  first  inclination  about 
Mr.  Lough. 

And  yesterday  I  was  not  tired  to  signify.  I  shall  not 
be  ill,  my  beloved, — I  think  I  shall  not.  I  am  as  perfectly 
well  now  in  all  respects  (except  that  I  have  not  strength  for 
much  exercise  and  noise  and  confusion,  .  .)  as  it  is  pos- 
sible to  be.  So  do  not  be  anxious  about  me — rather  spend 
your  dear  thoughts  of  me  in  loving  me,  .  .  dear,  dearest ! 

You  breakfast  with  Mrs.  Jameson,  and  I  shall  remem- 
ber not  to  long  too  much  for  the  eight  o'clock  letter  at 
night.  Remember  you,  not  to  be  hurried  as  to  the  writing 
of  it. 

Oh !  I  had  a  letter  from  my  particular  Bennet  this 
morning,  .  .  and  my  Georgiana  desires  me  instantl}'  to 
say  why  I  presumed  not  to  write  to  her  before.  I  am 
commanded  out  of  all  further  delays.  '  Did  I  receive  her 
letter, '  she  wonders !  !  !  !  Georgiana  is  imperative. 
May  God  bless  you,  you  who  bless  me! 

I  am  wholly  your  own. 

&  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  12,  1846.] 

I  must  write  very  little  to-day,  dearest,  because  Mr. 
Kenyon,  as  a  note  from  him  just  tells  me,  comes  at  half 
past  two  for  me,  and  in  the  meantime  I  am  expecting  a 
visit  from  my  uncle  Hedley,  who  arrived  yesterday  while 
We  were  together.  Scarcely  could  Henrietta  keep  him, 
she  says,  from  coming  upstairs  '  to  see  Ba ! '  We  just  es- 
caped, therefore.  I  have  been  thinking  that  having  the 
barbarians  down  on  us  may  be  at  least  a  means  of  preserv- 
ing us  from  going  into  the  wilderness  ourselves  .  .  myself 
.  .  if  I  were  taken  away,  as  I  told  you,  to  Tunbridge, 
Dover,  or  other  provinces  of  Siberia.     How  should  I  bear, 


1346]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  225 

do  you  think,  to  be  taken  away  from  you?  Very  badly  ! — 
though  you  will  not  hear  of  my  being  able  to  love  you 

as  I  ought- when  that  is  precisely  the  only  thing  I  can 

do,  it  seems  to  me,  at  all  worthily  of  you. 

Ora  pro  me  in  Mr.  Kenyon's  carriage  to-day — I  am 
getting  so  nervous  and  frightened!  I  shall  feel  all  the 
while  as  if  set  on  a  vane  on  the  top  of  St.  Paul's  .  .  can 
you  fancy  the  feeling?  I  do  wish  I  were  safe  at  home 
again,  reading  your  letter  .  .  which  will  come  to-night — 
will  .  .  shall  .  .  must  .  .  according  to  the  letter  and  spirit 
of  the  Law. 

You  made  the  proposal  to  me  about  New  Cross,  yester- 
day, out  of  consideration  and  kindness  to  me !  I  under- 
stand it  so,  thanking  you.  For  the  rest,  I  need  not,  I  am 
certain,  assure  you  that  it  would  be  the  greatest  pain  to 
me  at  any  time,  to  be  wanting  in  even  the  forms  of  respect 
and  affection  towards  your  family — and  that  I  would  not, 
from  a  mere  motive  of  shyness,  hazard  a  fault  against  them 
—you  will  believe  this  of  me.  But  the  usual  worldly  form 
(if  the  world  is  to  give  the  measure)  would  be  against  my 
paying  such  a  visit— and  under  ordinary  circumstances  it 
never  is  paid — not  so.  Therefore  the  not  paying  it  is  not 
an  omission  of  an  ordinary  form  of  attention— that  is  what 
I  mean  to  say.  And  to  keep  all  dear  to  jovl  quite  safe  and 
away  from  all  splashing  of  the  mud  which  we  cannot  our- 
selves hope  to  escape,  is  the  great  object, — it  does  seem  to 
me.  Your  father  and  mother  would  be  blamed  (in  this 
house,  I  know,,  if  not  in  others)  for  not  apprizing  my  father 
of  what  they  knew.  As  it  is,  there  is  evil  enough — though 
there  is  a  way  of  escaping  that  evil. 

As  it  is. —  Now  I  do  beseech  you  to  consider  well 
whether  you  will  not  have  too  much  pain  in  finding  that 
they  suffer  it  (after  every  precaution  taken)  .  .  to  render 
all  this  which  we  are  about,  wise  and  advisable.  They 
will  suffer,  to  hear  you  spoken  of  as  we  both  shall  be 
spoken  of  .  .  be  perfectly  sure !     They  will  suffer,  to  have 

to  part  with  you  so and  the  circumstances,  perhaps, 

Vol.  II.— 15 


226   THE  LETTEES  OF  KOBERT  BROWNING    [June  12 

will  not  help  to  give  them  confidence  in  the  stranger,  who 
presumes  so  to  enter  their  family.  I  ask  you  not  to  answer 
this ! — only,  to  think  of  it  in  time,  lest  you  should  come 
to  think  of  it  too  late.  Put  it  between  the  leaves  of 
Machiavel, — that  at  need  you  may  confute  yourself  as  well 
as  M.  Thiers. 

Beloved,  say  how  you  are — and  how  your  mother  is. 
Here  I  must  end — to  be  ready  for  dear  Mr.  Kenyon,  and 
casualties  of  uncles  &c.  Think  of  me,  love  me — my  heart 
is  full  of  you. 

I  am  your  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  June  12,  1846.] 

When  I  am  close  to  you  in  your  very  room,  I  see 
through  your  eyes  and  feel  what  you  feel — but  after,  the 
sight  widens  with  the  circle  of  outside  things — I  cannot 
fear  for  a  moment  what  seemed  redoubtable  enough  yester- 
day— nor  do  I  believe  that  there  will  be  two  opinions  any- 
where in  the  world  as  to  your  perfect  right  to  do  as  you 
please  under  the  present  circumstances.  People  are  not 
quite  so  tolerant  to  other  people's  preposterousness,  and 
that  which  yourself  tell  me  exceeds  anything  I  ever  heard 
of  or  imagined — but,  dearest,  on  twice  thinking,  one  surely 
ought  not  to  countenance  it  as  you  propose — why  should 
not  my  father  and  mother  know?  What  possible  harm  can 
follow  from  their  knowing?  Why  should  I  wound  them  to 
the  very  soul  and  for  ever,  by  as  gratuitous  a  piece  of 
unkindness  as  if, — no, — there  is  no  comparison  will  do! 
Because,  since  I  was  a  child  I  never  looked  for  the  least  or 
greatest  thing  within  the  compass  of  their  means  to  give, 
but  given  it  was, — nor  for  liberty  but  it  was  conceded,  nor 
confidence  but  it  was  bestowed.  I  dare  say  they  would 
break  their  hearts  at  such  an  end  of  all.  For  in  any  case 
they  will  take  my  feeling  for  their  own  with  implicit  trust 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEKETT  227 

— and  if  I  brought  them  a  beggar,  or  a  famous  actress 
even,  they  would  believe  in  her  because  of  me, — if  a 
Duchess  or  Miss  Hudson,  or  Lady  Selina  Huntingdon 
rediviva  .  .  they  would  do  just  the  same,  sorrow  to  say ! 
As  to  any  harm  or  blame  that  can  attach  itself  to  them, — it 
is  too  absurd  to  think  of !  What  earthly  control  can  they 
have  over  me  ?  They  live  here,  — I  go  my  own  way,  being 
of  age  and  capability.     How  can  they  interfere? 

And  then,  blame  for  what,  in  either  God's  or  the  devil's 
name?  I  believe  you  to  be  the  one  woman  in  the  world  I 
am  able  to  marry  because  able  to  love.  I  wish,  on  some 
accounts,  I  had  foreseen  the  contingency  of  such  an  one's 
crossing  my  path  in  this  life — but  I  did  not,  and  on  all 
ordinary  grounds  preferred  being  free  and  poor,  accord- 
ingly. All  is  altered  now.  Does  anybody  doubt  that  I 
can  by  application  in  proper  quarters  obtain  quite  enough 
to  support  us  both  in  return  for  no  extraordinary  expendi- 
ture of  such  faculties  as  I  have?  If  it  is  to  be  doubted,  I 
have  been  greatly  misinformed,  that  is  all.  Or,  setting  all 
friends  and  their  proposals  and  the  rest  of  the  hatefulness 
aside — I  should  say  that  so  simple  a  procedure  as  writing 
to  anybody  .  .  Lord  Monteagle,  for  instance,  who  reads 
and  likes  my  works,  as  he  said  at  Moxon's  two  days  ago 
on  calling  there  for  a  copy  to  give  away  .  .  surety  to  write 
to  him,  '  When  you  are  minister  next  month,  as  is  expected, 
will  you  give  me  for  my  utmost  services  about  as  much  as 
you  give  Tennyson  for  nothing?  ' — this  would  be  rational 
and  as  easy  as  all  rationality.  Let  me  do  so,  and  at  once, 
my  own  Ba!  And  do  you,  like  the  unutterably  noble 
creature  I  know  you,  transfer  your  own  advantages  to  your 
brothers  or  sisters  .  .  making  if  you  please  a  proper 
reservation  in  the  case  of  my  own  exertions  failing,  as 
failure  comes  everywhere.  So  shall  the  one  possible  occa- 
sion of  calumny  be  removed  and  all  other  charges  go  for 
the  simple  absurdities  they  will  be.  I  am  entirely  in 
earnest  about  this,  and  indeed  had  thought  for  a  moment 
of  putting  my  own  share  of  the  project  into  immediate  exe- 


228    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  12 

cution— but  on  consideration, — no!  So  I  will  live  and  so 
die  with  you.  I  will  not  be  poorly  endeavouring  to  startle 
you  with  unforeseen  generosities,  catch  you  in  pretty  pit- 
falls of  magnanimities,  be  always  surprising  you,  or  trying 
to  do  it.  No,  I  resolve  to  do  my  best,  through  you — by 
your  counsel,  with  your  help,  under  your  eye  .  .  the  most 
strenuous  endeavour  will  only  approximate  to  an  achieve- 
ment of  that, — and  to  suppose  a  superfluousness  of  devo- 
tion to  you  (as  all  these  surprises  do)  would  be  miserably 
foolish.  So,  dear,  dear  Ba,  understand  and  advise  me.  I 
took  up  the  paper  with  ordinary  feelings  .  .  but  the  ab- 
surdity and  tyranny  suddenly  flashed  upon  me  .  .  it  must 
not  be  borne — indeed  its  only  safety  in  this  instance  is  in 
its  impotency.  I  am  not  without  fear  of  some  things  in 
this  world — but  the  '  wrath  of  men, '  all  the  men  living  put 
together,  I  fear  as  I  fear  the  fly  I  have  just  put  out  of  the 
window ;  but  I  fear  God — and  am  ready,  he  knows,  to  die 
this  moment  in  taking  his  part  against  any  piece  of  injus- 
tice and  oppression,  so  I  aspire  to  die ! 

See  this  long  letter,  and  all  about  a  tiny  one,  a  plain 
palpable  commonplace  matter  about  which  you  agree  with 
me,  you  the  dear  quiet  Ba  of  my  heart,  with  me  that  make 
all  this  unnecessary  fuss!  See  what  is  behind  all  the 
'bated  breath  and  whispered  humbleness?' — but  it  is 
right,  after  all,  to  revolt  against  such  monstrous  tyranny. 
And  I  ought  not,  I  feel,  to  have  forgotten  the  feelings  of 
my  father  and  mother  as  I  did — because  I  know  as  cer- 
tainly as  I  know  anything  that  if  I  could  bring  myself  to 
ask  them  to  give  up  everything  in  the  world ;  they  would 
do  it  and  cheerfully. 

So  see,  and  forgive  your  own  B. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  June  13,  1846.] 

But  dearest,  dearest,  .  .  when  did  I  try  to  dissuade 
you  from  telling  all  to  your  father  and  mother?     Surely  I 


1346]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  229 

did  not  and  could  not.  That  you  should  '  wound  them  to 
the  very  soul  and  for  ever '  .  .  I  am  so  far  from  counsel- 
ling it,  that  I  would  rather,  I  think,  as  was  intimated  in 
my  letter  of  this  morning,  have  all  at  an  end  at  once — 
rather!  Certainly  rather,  .  .  when  the  alternative  would 
be  your  certain  unhappiness  and  remorse.  A  right,  they 
have,  to  your  entire  confidence; — for  me  to  say  a  word 
against  your  giving  it — may  God  forbid!  Even  that  you 
should  submit  your  wishes  to  theirs  in  this  matter,  would 
be  no  excess  of  duty — I  said  so,  I  think,  in  my  letter  of 
this  morning. 

At  the  same  time,  I  am  of  opinion,  .  .  which  was  what 
I  meant  to  put  into  words,  .  .  that,  in  the  case  of  their  ap- 
proving in  the  sufficient  degree  .  .  and  of  your  resolving 
finally  on  carrying  out  our  engagement  .  .  you  should 
avoid  committing  them  further  than  is  necessary,  and  so 
exposing  them  to  unpleasant  remarks  and  reproaches  from 
my  family  .  .  to  go  no  farther.  You  think  that  nothing 
can  be  said — I  wish  /  could  think  so.  You  are  not  to  be 
restrained  perhaps  .  .  but  you  are  to  be  advised  .  .  and  it 
would  be  a  natural  step  for  your  father,  to  go  straight  to 
his  friend  Mr.  Kenyon.  Do  you  see  what  might  be  done 
though  you  are  '  of  age ' — and  for  not  doing  which,  your 
father  might  be  reproached?  And  more  there  would  be  to 
do,  besides.  Therefore  I  thought  that  you  should  avoid, 
as  far  as  possible,  committing  him  openly  .  .  making  him 
a  party  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  (as  would  be  done  by  my 
visit  to  New  Cross  for  instance) — yet  I  may  be  wrong  here, 
.  .  and  you,  in  any  case,  are  the  master,  to  act  as  you  see 
best. 

And,  looking  steadily  at  the  subject,  do  you  not  see,  .  . 
now  that  we  look  closely  besides,  .  .  how  mortifying  to 
the  just  pride  of  your  family,  as  well  as  to  your  own  self- 
respect,  is  every  possible  egress  from  these  unhappy  cir- 
cumstances? Ah — I  told  you — I  told  you  long  ago!  I 
saw  that  at  the  beginning.  Giving  the  largest  confidence 
to  your  family,  you  still  must  pain  them — still. 


230   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [June  13 

.For  the  rest  .  yon  are  generous  and  noble  as  always 
—but,  no,  .  .  I  shall  refuse  steadily  for  reasons  which  are 
plain,  to  put  away  from  me  God's  gifts  .  .  given  perhaps 
in  order  to  this  very  end  .  .  and  apart  from  which,  I  should 
not  have  seen  myself  justified,  .  .  even  as  far  as  now  I 
vaguely,  dimly  seem  .  .  to  cast  the  burden  of  me  upon 
you.  No.  I  care  as  little  for  money  as  you  do — but  this 
thing  I  will  not  agree  to,  because  I  ought  not.  At  the  same 
time,  you  shall  be  at  liberty  to  arrange  that  after  the  deaths 
of  us  two,  the  money  should  return  to  my  family  .  .  this, 
if  you  choose — for  it  shall  be  by  your  own  act  hereafter, 
that  they  may  know  you  for  what  you  are.  In  the  mean- 
while, I  should  laugh  to  scorn  all  that  sort  of  calumny  .  . 
even  if  I  could  believe  it  to  be  possible.  Supposing  that 
you  sought  money,  you  would  not  be  quite  so  stupid,  the 
world  may  judge  for  itself,  as  to  take  hundreds  instead  of 
thousands,  and  pence  instead  of  guineas.  To  do  the  world 
justice,  it  is  not  likely  to  make  a  blunder  on  such  a  point 
as  this. 

I  wish,  if  you  can  wish  so,  that  you  were  the  richer.  I 
could  be  content  to  have  just  nothing,  if  we  could  live  easily 
so.  But  as  I  have  a  little  without  seeking  it,  you  must,  on 
the  other  hand,  try  to  be  content,  and  not  be  too  proud. 

As  to  Lord  Monteagle,  .  .  dearest  .  .  .  you  will  do 
what  you  like  of  course,  though  I  do  not  understand  exactly 
what  your  object  is.  A  pension  on  literary  grounds  is  the 
more  difficult  to  obtain,  that  the  fund  set  apart  for  that  end 
is  insufficient,  I  believe.  Then  if  you  are  to  do  diplomacy 
for  it,  .  .  how  do  you  know  that  you  may  not  be  sent  to 
Russia,  or  somewhere  impossible  for  me  to  winter  in?  If 
you  were  fixed  even  in  London,  .  .  what  then?  You  know 
best  what  your  own  views  are,  and  wishes  are — I  would  not 
cross  them,  if  you  should  be  happier  so,  or  so. 

And  do  you  think  that  because  this  may  be  done,  or  not 
done  .  .  and  because  that  ought  not  to  be  borne  .  .  we  can 
make  any  change  .  .  act  any  more  openly  .  .  face  to  face, 
perhaps — voice  to  voice?     Alas,  no! — You  said  once  that 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  231 

women  were  as  strong  as  men,  .  .  unless  in  the  concur- 
rence of  physical  force.  Which  is  a  mistake.  I  would 
rather  be  kicked  with  a  foot,  .  .  (I,  for  one  woman!  .  .) 
than  be  overcome  by  a  loud  voice  speaking  cruel  words.  I 
would  not  yield  before  such  words — I  would  not  give  you 
up  if  they  were  said  .  .  but,  being  a  woman  and  a  very 
weak  one  (in  more  senses  than  the  bodily),  they  would  act 
on  me  as  a  dagger  would,  .  .  I  could  not  help  dropping, 
dying  before  them.  I  say  it  that  you  may  understand. 
Tyranny?  Perhaps.  Yet  in  that  strange,  stern  nature, 
there  is  a  capacity  to  love — and  I  love  him — and  I  shall 
suffer,  in  causing  him  to  suffer.  May  God  bless  you. 
You  will  scarcely  make  out  these  hurried  straggling  words 
— and  scarcely  do  they  carry  out  my  meaning.  I  am  for 
ever  your 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  June  13,  1846.] 

Dearest,  all  dearest  beyond  my  heart's  uttering,  will 
you  forgive  me  for  that  foolish  letter,  and  the  warmth,  and 
— FOR  all, — more  than  ever  I  thought  to  have  needed  to 
ask  forgiveness  for !  I  love  you  in  every  imaginable  way. 
All  was  wrong,  absurd,  in  that  letter — do  you  forgive — 
now,  while  I  kiss  your  feet,  my  own,  own  Ba? 

For  see  why  it  was  wrong  .  .  my  father  and  mother 
will  not  be  pained  in  any  degree  :  they  will  believe  what  I 
say,  exactly  what  I  say.  I  wrote  on  and  on  in  a  heat  at 
the  sudden  ridiculous  fancy  of  the  matter's  taking  place 
some  fine  morning,  without  a  word  of  previous  intimation, 
—'I  am  going  away,  never  mind  where, — with  somebody, 
never  concern  yourselves  whom, — to  stay,  if  for  ever,  is  it 
any  business  of  yours  to  enquire? '  All  which  was  .  . 
what  was  it?  a  method  of  confirming  you  in  your  compli- 
mentary belief  in  my  c  calmness ' — or  that  other  in  my 
'good  practical  sense '—oh,  Ba,  Ba,  how  I  deserve  you! 


232   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [June  13 

I  will  only  say,  I  agree  in  all  you  write — it  will  be  clearly 
best,  and  I  can  obviate  every  untowardness  here  .  .  show 
that  all  is  pure  kindness  and  provident  caution  .  .  so  easy 
all  will  be !  And  for  the  other  matters,  I  will  fear  noth- 
ing. 

But  you  do — you  DO  understand  what  caused  the  sudden 
fancy  .  .  how  I  thought  '  not  show  them  my  pride  of 
prides,  my  miraculous,  altogether  peerless  and  incompar- 
able Ba ! '     It  was  not  flying  from  your  counsel, — oh,  no ! 

So,  is  your  hand  in  mine,  or  rather  mine  in  yours 
again,  sweetest,  best  love?  All  will  be  well.  Follow  out 
your  intention,  as  you  spoke  of  it  to  me,  in  every  point. 
Do  not  for  God's  sake  run  the  risk,  or  rather,  encounter 
the  certainty  of  hearing  words  which  most  likely  have  not 
anything  like  the  significance  to  the  speaker  that  they 
would  convey  to  the  hearer — and  so  let  us  go  quietly  away. 
I  will  care  nothing  about  diplomatism  or  money-getting 
extraordinary — why,  my  own  works  sell  and  sell  and  are 
likely  to  sell,  Moxon  says.  And  I  mean  to  write  wondrous 
works,  you  may  be  sure,  and  sell  them  too, — and  out  of  it 
all  may  easily  come  some  fifty  or  sixty  horrible  pounds  a 
year, — on  which  one  lives  famously  in  Ravenna,  I  dare 
say  :  think  of  Ravenna,  Ba ! — it  seems  the  place  of  places, 
with  the  pines  and  the  sea,  and  Dante,  and  no  English,  and 
all  Ba. 

My  Ba,  I  see  you  on  Monday,  do  I  not?  You  let  me 
come  then,  do  you  not?  I  am  on  fire  to  see  you  and  know 
you  love  me  .  .  not  as  I  love  you  .  .  that  can  never  be !  I 
am  your  own 

R. 

I  resolve,  after  a  long  pause  and  much  irresolution,  to 
write  down  as  much  as  I  shall  be  able,  of  an  obvious  fact 
.  .  If  the  saddest  fate  I  can  imagine  should  be  reserved 
for  me  .  .  I  should  wish,  you  would  wish  to  live  the  days 
out  worthily, — not  end  them — nor  go  mad  in  them — to  pre- 
vent which,  I  should  need  distraction,  the  more  violent  the 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  233 

better, — and  it  would  have  to  be  forced  on  me  in  the  only 
way  possible — therefore,  after  my  death,  I  return  nothing 
to  your  family,  be  assured.     You  will  not  recur  to  this! 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Saturday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  .15,  1846.] 

I  wrote  last  night  when  my  head  was  still  struggling 
and  swimming  between  two  tides  of  impressions  received 
from  the  excitement  and  fatigue  of  the  day.  Mr.  Kenyon 
(dear  Mr.  Kenyon  in  his  exquisite  kindness !)  took  me  to 
see  the  strange  new  sight  (to  me !)  of  the  Great  "Western 
.  .  the  train  coming  in :  and  we  left  the  carriage  and  had 
chairs — and  the  rush  of  the  people  and  the  earth-thunder 
of  the  engine  almost  overcame  me  .  .  not  being  used  to 
such  sights  and  sounds  in  this  room,  remember  !  !  and 
afterwards  I  read  and  answered  your  letter  with  a  whirling 
head.  I  cannot  be  sure  how  I  answered  it,  my  head  whirled 
so.  I  only  hope  .  .  hope  .  .  hope  .  .  that  it  did  not 
seem  unworthy  of  your  goodness  and  generosit}-  — for  that 
would  be  unworthy  of  my  perception  of  them  and  rever- 
ence for  them,  besides.  You  do  not,  in  particular,  I  do 
hope,  misunderstand  my  reasons  for  refusing  to  improve 
what  you  call  my  '  advantages,'  by  turning  them  into  dis- 
advantages for  you.  Really  it  struck  me  at  the  moment 
and  strikes  me  new  every  time  I  think  of  it,  that  it  would 
be  monstrous  in  me  to  stop  at  such  an  idea  long  enough  to 
examine  it.  To  do  such  a  thing  would  complete  the  '  ad- 
vantages '  of  my  alliance— if  that  is  a  desire  of  yours.  And 
if  I  were  to  be  ill  afterwards,  there  would  be  the  crown  of 
the  crown.     Now  ask  yourself  if  I  ought 

I  cannot  conceive  of  the  possibility  of  a  '  calumny  '  on 
such  a  pretext — there  seems  no  room  for  it.  You  will  how- 
ever have  it  in  your  power  hereafter,  without  injury  to 
either  of  us,  to  do  yourself  full  justice  in  this  particular 
■ only  neither  now  nor  hereafter  shall  I  consent  to  let  in 


234   THE  LETTERS  OF  EOBEET  BROWNING    [June  15 

sordid  withering  cares  with  your  life.  God  has  not  made 
it  so,  and  it  shall  not  be  so  by  an  act  of  mine. 

And  after  all,  shall  we  be  so  much  .  .  so  much  too 
rich?  do  you  fancy  that  Miss  Kilmansegg  is  made  of  brass 
compared  to  me?  It  is  not  so  bad,  be  very  sure.  If  Arabel 
should  not  offend  Papa,  she  will  be  richer  hereafter  than 
we  are  .  .  yet  not  rich  even  so.  Why  are  you  fanciful  in 
that  way?  People  are  more  likely  to  say  that  1  have  taken 
you  in.  The  sign  of  the  Red  Dragon !  as  you  suggested 
once  yourself! 

I  could  make  you  laugh,  if  it  were  not  too  hot  to  laugh, 
with  telling  you  how  I  really  do  not  know  what  my  '  ad- 
vantages '  are — specifically — so  many,  and  so  many.  I  am 
not  '  allowed  '  to  spend  what  I  might — but  the  motive  is  of 

course  a  kind  one there  is  no  mistaking  tlmt.     Poor 

Papa !  He  attends  just  to  those  pecuniary  interests  which 
no  one  cares  for,  with  a  scrupulous  attention.  Nearly  two 
hundred  a  year  of  ship  shares  I  never  touch.  Then  there 
is  the  interest  of  six  thousand  pounds  (not  less  at  any  rate) 
in  the  funds — and  I  referred  to  the  principal  of  that,  when 
I  said  yesterday,  that  when  we  had  ceased  to  need  it,  it 
might  return  to  my  family,  since  it  came  from  them,  if  you 
chose.  But  this  is  all  air — and  nothing  shall  he  said  of  it 
now — and  whatever  may  be  said  hereafter,  shall  come  from 
you,  and  be  your  word  rather  than  mine.  So  I  beseech 
you,  by  your  affection  for  me,  to  speak  no  more  of  this 
hateful  subject,  which  I  have  entered  for  a  moment  lest  you 
should  exaggerate  to  yourself  and  mistake  me  for  the  least 
in  the  world  of  an  heiress.  As  to  Lord  Monteagle,  we  can 
do  without  him,  i~  think — and  unless  he  would  give  us  a 
house  to  keep,  or  something  of  that  sort,  at  Sorrento  or 
Ravenna,  I  do  not  exactly  see  what  he  can  do  for  us.  To 
make  an  agreement  with  a  periodical,  would  be  more  a  pos- 
sibility perhaps— but  it  is  not  a  necessity — there  is  no 
sort  of  need,  in  fact — and  why  should  you  be  tormented 
'  in  the  multitude  of  the  thoughts  within  you, '  utterly  in 
vain? 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  235 

As  to  your  family  .  .  I  understand  your  natural  desire 
of  giving  your  confidence  at  the  fullest  to  your  father  and 
mother,  who  deserve  and  claim  it  .  .  I  understand  that 
you  should  speak  and  listen  to  them,  and  cross  no  wish  of 
theirs,  and  in  nothing  displease  and  pain  them.  But  I  do 
not  understand  the  argument  by  which  you  involve  the 
question  with  other  questions  .  .  when  you  say,  for  in- 
stance, that  I  '  ought  not  to  countenance  the  preposterous- 
ness  and  tyranny.'  How  do  I  seem  to  countenance  what  I 
revolt  from?  Do  you  mean  that  we  ought  to  do  what  we 
are  about,  openly?  It  is  the  only  meaning  I  can  attach  to 
your  words.  Well — If  you  choose  it  to  be  so,  knowing 
what  I  have  told  you,  let  it  be  so.  I  can  however,  as  I  said 
yesterday,  answer  only  for  my  will  and  mind,  and  not  for 
my  strength  and  body — and  if  the  end  should  be  different 
from  the  end  you  looked  for,  you  will  not  blame  me,  being 
just,  .  .  any  more  than  I  shall  blame  myself.  May  God 
bless  you,  ever  dearest ! — 

I  am  your  own  as  ever. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  June  15,  1846.] 

May  I  venture  to  speak  to  dearest  Ba  as  if  I  had  seen 
her  or  heard  from  her  since  I  wrote  yesterday, — and  that 
seeing  or  that  hearing  had  brought  the  usual  comfort  and 
assurance, — and  forgiveness  when  needed,  but  delight  at  all 
times?     Do  you  forgive  me  indeed,  Ba? 

I  shall  know  to-morrow — which  '  to-morrow '  is  your 
to-day.  I  am  soon  to  be  with  you  to-day.  I  trust  there  is 
[no]  occasion  to  exercise  fancy  and  say — '  When  we  meet  on 
your  return  from  Tunbridge  a  month  hence,'  or  two,  or 
three  .  .  to  go  on  fancying!  What  should  I  do,— be  able 
to  do?  and  if  I  understood  you  rightly  the  letter-communi- 
cation would  be  hindered,  if  not  stopped  altogether.  Thus 
is  one  the  sport  of  one's  own  wishes.     Fine  weather  is  de- 


236   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [.June  15 

sired  .  .  fine  enough  to  drive  people  out  of  town  into  the 
country ! 

As  it  is,  I  have  been  sufficiently  punished  for  that  fool- 
ish letter,  which  has  lost  me  the  last  two  or  three  days  of 
your  life  and  deeds,  my  Ba.  You  went  to  Mr.  Kenyon's 
— may  have  gone  elsewhere  (and  gathered  roses  I  did  not 
deserve  to  receive) — but  I  do  not  know,  and  shall  not  re- 
cover my  loss — not  ever  .  .  because  if  you  tell  me  now, 
you  exclude  something  new  you  would  say  otherwise  .  . 
if  you  write  it  on  Tuesday,  what  becomes  of  Tuesday's 
own  stock  of  matter  for  chronicling? 

Well,  the  proper  word  in  my  mouth  is — I  am  sorry  to 
the  heart,  and  will  try  never  to  offend  so  again.  How  you 
wrote  to  me,  also !  How  you  rise  above  yourself  while  I 
get  no  nearer  where  you  were  first  of  all,  no  nearer  than 
ever !     But  so  it  should  be !  so  may  it  ever  be ! 

I  believe  the  fault  comes  from  a  too-sweet  sense  of  the 
freedom  of  being  true  with  you,  telling  you  all,  hiding  noth- 
ing. Carlyle  was  saying  in  his  fine  way,  he  understood 
why  the  Romans  confined  acting  to  their  slaves  .  .  it  was 
no  employment  for  a  free  man  to  amuse  people  .  .  be 
bound  to  do  that,  and  if  other  faculties  interposed,  tending 
to  other  results  on  an  audience  than  amusement,  be  bidden 
suppress  them  accordingly  .  .  and  so,  he  thought,  it  would 
be  one  day  with  our  amusers,  writers  of  fun,  concocters  of 
comic  pieces.  /  feel  it  delicious  to  be  free  when  most 
bound  to  you,  Ba, — to  be  able  to  love  on  in  all  the  liberty 
of  the  implied  subjection  .  .  so  I  am  angry  to  you,  de- 
sponding sometimes  to  you,  as  well  as  joyous  and  hopeful 
— well,  well,  I  love,  at  any  rate, — do  love  you  with  heart 
and  soul,  my  Ba, — ever  shall  love  you,  dearest  above  all 
dearness :  God  bless  you ! 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKRETT  237 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  16,  1846.] 

As  to  '  practical  sense '  I  never  saw,  I  confess,  much  to 
praise  you  for — but  you  began  by  making  a  great  profes- 
sion of  it,  please  to  remember — and,  otherwise,  you  cer- 
tainly ought  to  know  more  of  the  world  and  the  wisdom 
thereof  than  I,  or  you  are  dull,  dearest  mine,  and  one 
might  as  well  call  the  sun  so  on  this  burning  dazzling 
morning,  when  everything  is  at  a  white  heat.  Then  for 
the  '  calmness '  ....  I  did  not  call  your  eyes  '  green ' 
after  all  .  .  nor  did  I  mean  what  you  would  force  on  me 
for  a  meaning  in  the  other  way : — you  pretend  to  misun- 
derstand? Eyes,  at  least,  that  had  the  mastery  with  me 
from  the  beginning !  and  it  was  so  long,  so  long  (as  you 
observed  yourself),  that  I  could  not  lift  up  mine  against 
them — they  were  the  mystic  crystal  walls,  so  long ! 

After  you  were  gone  yesterday  and  I  had  done  with  the 
roses  (exquisite  roses !)  and  had  my  coffee,  I  saw  my  uncle 
Hedley  who  had  been  inquiring  about  me,  said  my  sisters, 
all  the  afternoon,  .  .  for  it  was  he  who  came  when  we 
heard  the  greetings  on  the  stairs — and  he  told  me  that  his 
wife  and  daughter  were  to  be  in  London  early  in  July  .  . 
so  that  we  shall  have  the  whole  squadron  sooner  than 
we  thought — drawn  up  like  a  very  squadron  .  .  my  other 
aunt,  Miss  Clarke,  coming  at  the  same  time,  and  my 
cousin  with  her,  Arlette  Butler.  But  only  those  two  will 
be  in  the  house  here,  and  they  will  not  be  for  very  long, 
nor  will  they  be  much  in  the  Vf&j,  I  hope. 

Shall  I  tell  you?  I  repented  yesterday  .  .  I  repented 
last  night  .  .  I  repent  to-day,  having  made  the  promise 
you  asked  of  me.  I  could  scarcely  sleep  at  all  last  night, 
through  thinking  that  I  ought  not  to  have  made  it.  Be 
generous,  and  free  me  from  that  promise.  To  be  true  to 
you  in  the  real  right  sense,  I  need  no  promises  at  all — and 


238   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  16 

if  an  argument  were  addressed  to  me  in  order  to  separate 
us,  I  should  see  through  the  piteous  ingenuity  of  it,  I 
think,  whatever  ground  it  took,  and  admit  no  judgment 
and  authority  over  your  life  to  be  higher  than  your  own. 
But  I  have  misgivings  about  that  promise,  because  I  can 
conceive  of  circumstances  .  .  Loose  me  from  my  promise, 
and  let  me  be  grateful  to  you,  my  beloved,  in  all  things  and 
ways,  and  hold  you  to  be  generous  in  the  least  as  in  the 
greatest.  What  1  asked  of  you,  was  as  different  as  our 
positions  are — different  beyond  what  you  see  or  can  see. 
No  third  person  can  see, — no  second  person  can  see  .  . 
what  my  position  is  and  has  been  .  .  I  do  not  enter  on  it 
here.  But  there  is  just  and  only  one  way  in  which  I  may 
be  injured  by  you,  .  .  and  that  is,  in  being  allowed  to  in- 
jure you — so  remember,  remember,  .  .  to  the  last  available 
moment. 

Then  .  .  I  have  lived  so  in  a  dream  for  very  long ! — 
and  everything,  all  undertakings,  all  movements,  seem 
easy  in  dream-life.  The  sense  of  this  has  lately  startled 
me.  To  waken  up  suddenly  and  find  that  I  have  wronged 
you — what  more  misery? — and  I  feel  already  that  I  am 
bringing  you  into  a  position  which  will  by  some  or  many 
be  accounted  unworthy  of  you.  Well — we  will  not  talk  of 
it — not  now !  there  is  time  for  the  grave  consideration 
which  must  be.     Let  us  both  think. 

And  may  God  bless  you,  ever  dearest!  You  are  the 
best  and  most  generous  of  all  in  the  world !  Whatever  my 
mistake  may  be,  it  is  not  concerning  that.  Also  I  love 
you,  love  you.  Premature  things  I  say  sometimes,  which 
are  foolish  always.     Tell  me  how  you  are  .  .  tell  me  how 

your  mother  is but  speak  of  your  own  head  .  .  tarn 

ehari  .  .  particularly.  Overcoming,  the  heat  is — and  I  do 
hope  that  Mrs.  Jameson  won't  come  after  all. 

Your 
Ba. 


18461  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  239 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  16,  1846.] 

I  have  just  returned  from  Town — some  twelve  miles  at 
least  I  must  have  walked  in  this  extreme  heat  .  .  so  what 
has  become  of  the  headache?  And  now  I  sit  down  to  write 
what  Ba  will  read  .  .  what  has  become  of  the  heat  and 
fatigue?     In  this  sense  Ba  '  looks  cool  at  me ! ' 

I  shall  just  write  that  I  love,  and  love  you,  and  love  you 
again — my  own  Ba — just  this,  lest  you  learn  the  comfort 
of  a  respite  from  hearing  what  you  are  doomed  to  hear, 
with  variations,  all  the  days  of  your  life.  But  not  much 
more  than  this  shall  I  write,  because  the  love  lies  still  in 
me,  and  deep,  as  water  does, — cannot  run  forth  in  rivulets 
and  sparkle,  this  hot  weather;  but  then  how  I  love  her 
when  I  can  only  say  so,  — how  I  feel  her  .  .  as  in  an  old 
opera's  one  line  that  stays  in  my  recollection  the  tropical 
sun  is  described  on  the  ocean — '  fervid  on  the  glittering 
flood  ' — so  she  lies  on  me. 

See  the  pure  nonsense,  my  own  Ba,  and  laugh  at  it,  but 
not  at  what  lies  at  bottom  of  it,  because  that  is  true  as 
truth,  true  as  Ba's  self  in  its  way. 

I  called  on  Forster  this  morning :  he  says  Landor  is  in 
high  delight  at  the  congratulatory  letters  he  has  received 
— so  you  must  write,  dearest,  and  add  the  queen-rose  to 
his  garland.  F —  talks  about  some  500  copies — or  did  he 
say  300? — being  sold  already  .  .  so  there  is  hope  for 
Landor' s  lovers. 

So  I  should  have  written  once  .  .  but  like  Virgil's 
shepherd  .  .  :  know  I  now  what  love  is ! ' — Do  jou  remem- 
ber that  the  first  word  I  ever  wrote  to  you  was  '  I  love  you, 
dear  Miss  Barrett?  '  It  was  so, — could  not  but  be  so — and 
I  always  loved  you,  as  I  shall  always. 

Tell  me  all  you  can  about  your  dearest  self,  my  own 
love.  I  am  so  happy  in  you,  in  your  perfect  goodness  and 
truth, — in  all  of  you. 


240   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  16 

Be  careful  this  fatiguing  weather  .  .  the  evenings  and 
mornings  are  the  only  working  time  of  the  day,  as  in  the 
beginning  of  things.  But  all  day  long  is  rest-time  to  love 
you,  dear,  and  kiss  you,  as  now — kisses 

Your  own. 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday,  6  o'clock. 
[Post-mark,  June  17,  1846.] 

Beloved,  this  weather,  which  makes  Flush  cross,  per- 
haps helped  to  make  me  depressed  this  morning.  I  had 
not  slept  well,  and  ought  not  to  have  written  to  you  till  the 
effect  of  it  had  gone  off.  Now  I  feel  more  as  if  I  had  been 
with  you  yesterday.  Ah  well!  I  don't,  can't  remember 
what  I  wrote  .  .  and  some  of  it  was  wise  .  .  for  I  ought 
not  to  have  promised  that,  .  .  and  you  must  loose  me,  that 
I  may  be  loosed  in  Heaven,  from  the  bands  of  it.  Only 
you  are  not  to  go  to  Greenwich  (you  go  to  Greenwich  to- 
morrow, do  you  not?)  thinking  that  I  wanted  to  teaze  you. 
There  is  just  one  meaning  to  all  my  words,  let  them  be  sad 
or  gay  .  .  and  it  is,  that  your  happiness  is  precious.  For 
myself,  if  we  were  to  part  now  and  for  ever,  I  should  still 
owe  you  the  only  happiness  of  my  life.  But  nobody  is 
talking  of  parting,  you  know — I  am  yours,  and  cannot  be 
put  away  from  you  except  by  your  own  hand.  Which  is 
decided !  What  I  ask  of  you,  is  to  spare  me  the  pang  of 
causing  you  to  suffer  on  my  account,  .  .  and  you  may 
suffer  sometimes,  I  fear,  through  all  your  affection  for  me, 
.  .  and  indirectly,  if  not  directly. 

Two  visitors  I  have  had  to-day — dear  Mr.  Kenyon,  and 
Lady  Margaret  Cocks.  She  is  going  to  Italy — (oh,  of 
course !)  to  Borne.  He  came  to  tell  me  that  the  books 
came  to  me  from  Landor  himself,  and  that  I  must  write  to 
him  to  thank  him  properly.  Mrs.  Jameson  I  do  not  see, 
nor  Miss  Bay  ley. 

How  hot  it  will  be  for  you   to-morrow!     Try  to  be 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  241 

amused  and  not  too  tired,  dearest  beloved,  and  tell  me  in 
your  letters  how  the  head  is. 

While  the  heart  beats  (mine !)  I  am  your  own. 

I  am  going  in  the  carriage  presently  and  shall  write 
again  to-night.  Won't  that  be  three  times  in  a  day  accord- 
ing to  order? 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  June  17,  1846.] 

Best,  .  .  best,  you  are,  to  write  to  me  when  you  were 
tired,  and  so  I  When  i"  am  tired  and  write  to  you,  it  is  too 
apt  to  be  what  may  trouble  you.  With  you,  how  different ! 
In  nothing  do  you  show  your  strength  more  than  in  your 
divine  patience  and  tenderness  towards  me,  till  .  .  not 
being  used  to  it,  I  grow  overwhelmed  by  it  all,  and  would 
give  you  my  life  at  a  word.  Why  did  you  love  me,  my 
beloved,  when  you  might  have  chosen  from  the  most  per- 
fect of  all  women  and  each  would  have  loved  you  with  the 
perfectest  of  her  nature?  That  is  my  riddle  in  this  world. 
I  can  understand  everything  else  .  .  I  was  never  stopped 
for  the  meaning  of  sorrow  upon  sorrow  .  .  but  that  you 
should  love  me  I  do  not  understand,  and  I  think  that  I 
never  shall. 

Do  I  remember?  Yes  indeed,  I  remember.  How  I  re- 
curred and  wondered  afterwards,  though  at  the  moment  it 
seemed  very  simple  and  what  was  to  be  met  with  in  our 
philosophy  every  day.  But  there,  you  see,  there's  the 
danger  of  using  mala  verba !  The  Fates  catch  them  up  and 
knit  them  into  the  web !  Then  I  remember  all  the  more 
(though  I  should  at  any  rate)  through  an  imprudence  of 
my  own  (or  a  piece  of  ill-luck  rather  .  .  it  shall  not  be 
called  an  imprudence)  of  which  I  will  tell  you.  I  was  writ- 
ing to  Miss  Mitford  and  of  you — we  differed  about  you 
often,  .  .  because  she  did  not  appreciate  you  properly, 
and  was  fond  of  dwelling  on  the  '  obscurity  '  when  I  talked 
Vol.  II.— 16 


242   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  17 

of  the  light, — and  I  just  then  writing  of  you,  added  in  my 
headlong  unreflecting  way  that  I  had  had  a  real  letter  from 
you  which  said  that  you  loved  me — '  Oh — but, '  I  wrote 
on,  'you  are  not  to  mistake  this,  not  to  repeat  it — for  of 
course,  it  is  simply  the  purest  of  philanthropies '  .  .  . 
some  words  to  that  effect — and  if  yours  was  the  purest  of 
philanthropies,  mine  was  the  purest  of  innocences,  as  you 
may  well  believe,  .  .  for  if  I  had  had  the  shadow  of  a 
foresight,  I  should  not  have  fallen  into  the  snare.  So  vexed 
I  was  afterwards !  Not  that  she  thought  anything  at  the 
time,  or  has  referred  to  it  since,  or  remembers  a  word  now. 
Only  I  was  vexed  in  my  innermost  heart  .  .  and  am  .  .  do 
you  know?  .  .  that  I  should  have  spoken  lightly  of  such 
an  expression  of  yours — though  you  meant  it  lightly  too. 
Dearest!  It  was  a  disguised  angel  and  I  should  have 
known  it  by  its  wings  though  they  did  not  fly. 

But  I  foresaw  nothing,  .  .  looked  to  you  for  nothing, 
.  .  nothing  can  prove  better  to  myself,  than  my  having 
mentioned  the  quaint  word  at  all.  For  I  know,  and  I  hope 
you  know,  how  impossible  it  always  has  been  to  me  to 
choose  for  a  subject  of  conversation  and  jest,  things  which 
never  should  be  spoken  to  friend  or  sister.  But  how  was 
I  to  foresee?  So  the  quaintness  passed  as  quaintness  with 
me.  And  never  from  that  time  (you  grew  sacred  too 
soon!),  never  again  from  that  moment,  did  I  mention  you 
to  Miss  Mitford — oh  yes,  I  did,  when  she  talked  of  intro- 
ducing Mr.  Chorley,  and  when  I  replied  that,  being  a 
woman,  I  would  have  my  wilful  way,  and  that  my  wilful 
way  was  to  see  you  instead.  But  except  then  .  .  and  when 
I  sent  her  Mr.  Landor's  verses  on  you  .  .  not  a  word  have 
I  spoken  .  .  except  in  bare  response.  She  thinks  perhaps 
that  my  old  fervour  about  you  has  sunk  into  the  socket — 
she  suspects  nothing — in  fact  she  does  not  understand 
what  love  is  .  .  and  I  never  should  think  of  asking  her  for 
sympathy.  She  is  one  of  the  Black  Stones,  which,  when 
I  climb  up  towards  my  Singing  Tree  and  Golden  Water, 
will  howl  behind  me  and  call  names. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  243 

You  had  my  second  letter  to-day,  speaking  of  Landor, 
and  of  Mr.  Kenyon's  visit.  At  lialf-past  six  came  Miss 
Bay  ley,  talking  exceeding  kindnesses  of  Ital}r,  and  entreat- 
ing me  to  use  her  .  .  to  let  her  go  with  me  and  take  care 
of  me  and  do  me  all  manner  of  good.  What  kindness, 
really,  in  a  woman  whom  I  have  not  seen  six  times  in  all ! 
I  am  very  grateful  to  her.  She  held  my  hands,  and  told 
me  to  write  to  her  if  ever  I  had  need  of  her — she  would 
come  at  a  moment,  go  for  a  year ! — she  would  do  anything 
for  me  I  desired !  And  this  woman  to  believe  of  herself 
that  she  has  no  soul!  Help  me  to  thank  her  in  your 
thoughts  of  her !  She  said,  by  the  way,  that  Mrs.  Jameson 
had  talked  to  her  of  wishing  to  take  me,  .  .  but  she 
thought  (Miss  Bayley  thought)  that  she  (Mrs.  Jameson) 
had  too  many  objects  and  too  much  vivacity  .  .  it  would 
not  do  so  well,  she  thought.  In  reply — I  could  just  thank 
her,  and  scarcely  could  do  that,  .  .  only  I  am  sure  she 
saw  and  felt  that  I  was  grateful  to  her  aright,  let  the  words 
come  ever  so  wrong.  To-morrow  she  leaves  London  for 
an  indefinite  time. 

She  told  me  too  that  a  friend  of  hers,  calling  on  Mrs. 
Jameson,  had  found  her  on  the  point  of  coming  to  me  to- 
day, to  drive  out  .  .  but  she  suffered  from  toothache  and 
was  going  to  Cartwright's  first  .  .  .  and  last,  I  suppose. 
I  dare  say  he  put  her  to  torture,  to  be  classified  with  '  the 
thumbscrew  and  the  gadge  '  .  .  some  disabling  torture,  for 
I  have  not  seen  her  at  all.  So  as  at  half-past  seven  Hen- 
rietta was  going  out  to  dinner,  Lizzie  and  I  and  Flush  took 
our  places  by  her  in  the  carriage,  and  went  to  Hyde  Park 
.  .  drove  close  by  the  Serpentine,  and  saw  by  the  ruffling 
of  the  water  that  there  was  a  breath  of  wind  more  than  we 
felt.  The  shadows  were  gathering  in  quite  fast,  shade 
upon  shade ;  and  at  last  the  silvery  water  seemed  to  hold 
all  the  light  left,  as  on  the  flat  of  a  hand.  Very  much  I 
liked  and  enjoyed  it.  And,  as  we  came  home,  the  gas  was 
in  the  shops  .  .  another  strange  sight  for  me — and  we  all 
liked  everything.     Flush  had  his  head  out  of  the  window 


244   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [June  17 

the  whole  way  .  .  except  when  he  saw  a  long  whip,  .  .  or 
had  a  frightful  vision  at  the  water  of  somebody  washing  a 
little  dog  .  .  which  made  him  draw  back  into  the  carriage 
with  dilated  eyes  and  quivering  ears,  and  set  about  licking 
my  hands,  for  an  '  Ora  pro  nobis. '  And  Lizzie  confided  to 
me,  that,  when  she  is  '  grown  up, '  she  never  will  go  out  to 
dinners  like  Henrietta,  but  drive  in  the  park  like  Ba,  in- 
stead .  .  unless  she  can  improve  upon  both,  and  live  in  a 
cottage  covered  with  roses,  in  the  country.  I,  in  the  mean- 
time, between  my  companions,  thought  of  neither  of  them 
more  than  was  necessary,  but  of  somebody  whom  I  had 
been  teazing  perhaps  .  .  dearest,  was  it  so,  indeed?  .  . 
but  I  avenge  you  by  teazing  myself  back  again !  A  long 
rambling  letter,  with  nothing  in  it !  '  Passages,  that  lead 
to  nothing  ' — and  staircases,  too !  May  I  be  loved  never- 
theless, as  usual?  and  forgiven  for  my  '  secret  faults? ' 
You  are  the  whole  world  to  me — and  the  stars  besides ! 
And  I  am  your  very  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  17,  1846.] 

My  own  Ba,  I  release  you  from  just  as  much  as  you 
would  easily  dispense  me  from  observing  in  that  mutual 
promise.  Indeed,  it  has  become  one  unnecessary  for  our 
present  relation  and  knowledge :  it  was  right  at  the  begin- 
ning for  either  to  say  to  the  other,  using  calm  words,  '  It 
is  your  good  I  seek,  not  mine,'  and  as  if  it  were  demon- 
strated that  I  should  secure  yours  at  the  expense  of  mine 
by  leaving  you  I  would  endeavour  to  do  it—  so,  you  assure 
me,  you  would  act  by  me.  The  one  point  to  ascertain 
therefore,  is — what  will  amount  to  a  demonstration;  and 
I  for  my  part  apprize  you  that  no  other  person  in  the 
world  can  by  any  possibility  know  so  much  of  me  as  to 
be  entitled  to  pronounce  in  the  matter — to  say  •  it  is  for 
good  or  for  evil ' — therefore,  you  will  no  more  be  justified 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  245 

in  giving  up  to  that  kind  of  demonstration  what  I  consent 
you  shall  give  up  to  one  clearly  furnished  by  myself,  the 
only  authentic  one — than  you  would  be  justified  in  paying 
iny  money,  entrusted  to  you,  on  the  presentation  of  a 
cheque  signed  by  somebody  else  .  .  somebody  who  loves 
me  better  than  himself,  my  best  of  friends,  truest  of  ad- 
visers &c.  &c.  It  skills  not,  boots  not — '  John  Smith  '  is 
not  K.B.,  nor  B.A.  and  because  R.B.  or  B.A.  shall  be 
instantly  attended  to, — the  counterfeit  must  be  refused.' 
Just  this,  so  rational  and  right,  I  understood  you  to  bid 
me  promise — and  so  much  you  have  promised  me,  a  proper, 
precaution  for  the  earlier  time  when  the  friend  might  seem 
to  argue  with  some  plausibility  '  really  I  understand  my 
friend's  interests  better  than  you  can.'  But  now,  who 
dares  assure  me  that?  I  disbelieve  it — one  only  knows 
better,  can  ever  know  better — yourself;  and  I  will  obey 
yourself.  So  with  me — I  know  better  my  own  good  than 
you  do  yet,  I  think.  When  I  tell  you  that  good  requires 
such  a  step  as  you  speak  of,  you  shall  acquiesce;  I  will 
tell  you  on  the  instant,  as  3rou,  in  your  own  case,  should 
tell  me  on  the  instant.  I  heeded  not  ask  you  to  promise, 
as  I  foolishly  did,  that  you  would  not  act  in  the  saddest  of 
ways — professing  to  see  what  could  never  be,  and  believe 
what  must  be  untrue.  At  the  beginning,  at  the  first  day, 
suppose  Mr.  Kenyon  had  said — you  prevent  his  getting 
such  a  place,  which  brings  in  so  much  honour  and  wealth 
— or  marrying  such  a  person  who  would  effect  the  same — 
you  might  have  assented  then,  in  your  comparative  igno- 
rance, just  as  you  could  not  have  objected  had  he  said,  '  If 
you  hold  Mr.  B.  to  his  engagement  to  come  here  on  the 
Derby  Day  you  will  ruin  him  assuredly,  for  his  heart  and 
soul  are  on  "the  turf"  and  his  betting-book  will  go  to 
wreck.'  To  this  you  could  never  bring  yourself  to  pretend 
an  assent — it  would  be  no  argument  if  he  went  on  saying — 
'  Why,  A  and  B  and  C  go  to  races  and  bet  on  them  ' — you 
know  I  do  not — so  you  know  my  estimate  of  honour  and 
wealth  and  the  rest,  apart  .  .  I  will  not  say  from  the  love 


246   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  17 

of  you, — but  from  my  own  life  as  I  had  traced  it  years 
ago,  and  as  it  is  still  traced  for  me  to  its  end, — your  love 
coming  to  help  it  in  every  smallest  particular,  to  supply 
the  undreamed-of  omissions  in  the  plan  of  it,  and  remove 
the  obstructions  best  seen  now  that  they  are  removed  or 
removable.  There  is  a  calmest  '  of  calm '  statements  of 
the  good  of  you  to  me. 

My  dearest  Ba,  you  say  '  let  us  both  think  ' — think  of 
this,  you !  Do  not  for  God's  sake  introduce  an  element 
of  uncertainty  and  restlessness  and  dissatisfaction  into  the 
feeling  whereon  my  life  lies.  To  speak  for  myself,  this 
matter  is  concluded,  done  with, — I  am  yours,  you  are 
mine,  and  not  to  give  use  to  refinements  upon  refinements 
as  to  what  is  the  being  most  of  all  each  others,  which 
might  end  in  your  loving  me  best  while  I  was  turned  a 
Turk  in  the  East,  or  my — you  know  the  inquisition  does 
all  for  the  pure  love  of  the  victim's  soul.  Let  us  have 
common  sense — and  think,  in  its  most  ordinary  exercise, 
what  would  my  life  be  worth  now  without  you — as  I, — ■ 
putting  on  your  own  crown,  accepting  your  own  dearest 
assurance, — dare  believe  your  life  would  be  incomplete 
now  without  mine — so  you  have  allowed  me  to  believe. 
Then  our  course  is  plain.  If  you  dare  make  the  effort,  we 
will  do  as  we  propose, — if  not,  not:  I  have  nothing  to  do 
but  take  your  hand  .  .  there  is  not  one  difficulty  in  my 
path, — nor  in  yours  on  my  account, — that  is  for  me.  If 
I  change  my  views,  and  desire  hereafter  what  I  altogether 
turn  from  now, — in  what  conceivable  respect  will  your 
being  my  wife  hinder  me?  If  I  accept  the  Embassy  which 
Young  England  in  the  person  of  Milnes  has  promised  me 
■ — you  shall  offer  no  impediment.  If  I  rather  aspire  to 
'  dine  out '  here  in  London,  you  shall  stay  at  home  and 
be  good-natured.  I  shall  attain  to  all  these  delights  just 
as  easily  with  you  as  without  you,  I  suppose;  '  No,  I  can- 
not marry  some  other  woman  and  by  her  means  and  con- 
nections and  connexions  ' — No — because — first  and  least  of 
all,  I  begin  by  drawing  on  myself  the  entire  cataract  of 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  247 

shame  and  disgrace  in  the  mouth  of  the  world, — direct 
accusation  or  rather  condemnation,  against  which  not  a 
word  can  be  urged  in  mitigation,  because  all  would  be  the 
pure  simple  truth — I  do  this,  who  have  been  fretfully  winc- 
ing under  the  mere  apprehension  of  catching  a  mere  spat- 
ter or  two  of  gossiping  scandal — which  a  very  few  words 
would  get  rid  of,  seeing  that,  in  fact,  the  falseness  of  the 
imputation  will  be  apparent  to  everybody  with  eyes  to  see 
— for  after  all,  here  I  am,  living  to  my  own  pleasure  and 
my  father  and  mother's,  and  at  liberty  to  do  so  for  ever, 
as  mortals  say.  Well,  and  so  having  gone  under  the  whole 
real  cataract  instead  of  the  sprinkling  impertinence  of  the 
half  a  dozen  sprinklings  from  the  mop  at  the  nursery- win- 
dow which  an  upward  look  and  cry  will  stop  at  once, — so 
having  mended  the  matter,  I  commit  a  sin  which  I  turn 
and  ask  you,  should  you  be  ever  at  peace  with  God  and 
yourself  if  you  sate  still  and  suffered  me  to  commit, — not 
on  account  of  me  and  my  harm  to  follow  in  both  worlds, — ■ 
but  in  mere  justice  to  your  '  neighbour, ' — on  whom  you 
would  see  inflicted  this  infamous  wrong? 

Dear,  dear,  dear  Ba,  I  kiss  you,  kiss  my  heart  out 
unto  you,— best  love,  one  love !  1  see  above  what  I  will 
not  think  over  again,  look  over  again — but  what  then? 
Can  I  be  quiet  when  I  hear  the  least,  least  motion  about 
my  treasure,  and  my  heart  that  is  there,  with  it?  Then 
no  more,  I  beseech  you,  love,  never  one  word  more  of  all 
that !  Whenever  I  can  hear  such  words  calmly,  I  shall  be 
fit  for  agreeing  to  them, — let  all  be  now.  These  two  kind- 
est of  letters  both  come  in  together  to  my  blessing — my 
entire  blessing!  I  was  writing  the  last  line  when  they 
came — I  will  just  say  now,  that  the  Greenwich  affair  is 
put  off  till  Friday.  Do  not  I  understand  Miss  Bay  ley? 
And  do  I  understand  you,  my  Ba,  when  I  venture  this 
time — because  of  the  ivords  and  the  pain  I  shall  not  hide 
that  they  did  give  me, — to  feel  that,  even  beyond  my  kiss- 
ing you,  you  kiss  this  one  time  your  own  E.B. 

My  mother  is  much  better,  and  out — she  is  walking 


248   THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  17 

with  my  sister.     I  am  very  well — in  the  joy  perhaps  .  . 
but  really  much  better — and  have  been  so. 

My  two  hundredth  letter  from  her !    I,  poor  ? 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  18,  1846.] 

Dearest  and  ever  dearest,  try  to  forgive  me  when  I  fall 
so  manifestly  short  of  you  in  all  things !  It  is  the  very 
sense  of  this  which  throws  me  on  despairs  sometimes  of 
being  other  than  a  bane  to  your  life — and  then  .  .  by  way 
of  a  remedy  .  .  I  begin  to  be  a  torment  to  it  directly. 
Forgive  me.  Whatever  I  may  say  I  am  as  wholly  yours 
as  if  you  held  me  in  your  hand,  and  I  would  do  for  you 
any  extravagance,  as  if  it  were  a  common  thing,  at  a  word 
— and  what  is  before  us  is  only  a  common  thing,  since  I 
have  looked  to  it  from  the  beginning.  Oh— I  may  talk 
when  I  am  out  of  spirits— but  you  know,  and  /  know  best 
of  all,  that  I  could  not  withdraw  myself  from  you,  unless 
you  said  '  Go  ' — could  not — I  have  no  power.  Fine  talk- 
ing, it  is  of  me,  to  talk  of  withdrawing  myself  from  you ! 
You  know  I  could  not  at  all  do  it,  let  ever  so  many  special 
pleaders  come  to  prove  to  me  that  you  would  be  more 
prosperous  and  happy  without  me.  '  Then  '  I  would  say 
.  .  'let  him  put  me  away.  I  can't  put  myself  away,  be- 
cause I  am  not  mine  but  his.'  Assuredly  I  would  say  just 
that,  and  no  more.  So  do  you  forget  that  I  have  teazed 
you  and  pained  you  .  .  .  pained  you !  .  .  I  will  try  not 
to  pain  you,  my  own,  own  dearest,  any  more.  I  have 
grown  to  love  you  instead  of  the  whole  world;  and  only 
one  thing  .  .  (you  understand  what  that  is  .  .)  is  dreadful 
and  intolerable  to  me  to  imagine.  But  now  it  is  done 
with ;  and  you  shall  teach  me  hereafter  to  make  you  happy 
instead  of  the  contrary.  So  .  .  yes — you  are  kissed  this 
time !  upon  both  eyes,  .  .  that  they  may  not  see  my  faults. 
And  afterwards  I  will  tell  you  a  paradox  .  .  that  if  I  loved 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  '       249 

you  a  hundred  times  less,  I  should  run  into  such  offences 
leas  in  exact  proportion.  And  finally  I  will  give  you  a 
promise  .  .  not  to  teaze  you  for  a  week — which  were  a 
wonderful  feat  for  me  /  the  teazer  par  excellence. 

To-day  I  deserved  to  hear  of  your  head  being  worse — 
but  it  is  better,  I  thank  God — and  your  mother  is  better — 
all  such  comforting  news !  But  it  was  no  news  that  you 
did  not  go  to  Greenwich  to-day, — for  Mrs.  Jameson  came 
for  me  to  drive  at  about  six,  and  she  and  I  were  in  Re- 
gent's Park  until  nearly  eight.  Then  she  went  somewhere 
to  dinner,  and  I,  who  had  had  tea,  came  home  to  supper ! 
I  like  her  very  much — more  and  more,  certainly — and  we 
need  not  be  mysterious  up  to  the  usual  mark  of  mystery, 
because  I  told  her  .  .  told  her  .  .  what  might  be  told — ■ 
and  she  was  gracious  to  the  uttermost — not  angry  at  all, — 
and  said  that  '  Truth  was  truth,  and  one  could  breathe  in 
the  atmosphere  of  it,  and  she  was  glad  I  had  told  her.' 
Of  you,  she  said,  that  she  admired  you  more  than  ever — 
yes,  more  than  ever— for  the  '  manner  in  which  as  a  man 
of  honour  you  had  kept  the  secret ' — so  you  were  praised, 
and  I,  not  blamed  .  .  and  we  shall  not  complain,  if  our 
end  is  as  good  as  our  beginning.  Also  we  talked  of  your 
poetry  and  of  you  personally,  and  I  was  pleased,  .  .  which 
proves  a  little  what  was  said — and  I  heard  how  you  were 
invited  as  a  '  celebrity '  for  the  Countess  Hahn-Hahn  to 
see  you,  and  how  you  effaced  yourself  with  ever  so  much 
gracefulness;  yet  not  too  much,  to  omit  charming  the 
whole  room.  Mrs.  Jameson  praises  you  always,  as  no- 
body does  better.  And  to-morrow  .  .  will  you  be  sur- 
prised to  hear  that  to-morrow  at  half-past  four,  I  am  to 
go  again  with  her,  .  .  to  see  Rogers 's  pictures?  Is  it 
wrong?  shall  I  got  into  a  scrape?  She  promised  laugh- 
ingly that  I  should  be  incognita  to  the  only  companion 
she  thought  of  taking  .  .  a  Mrs.  Bracebridge,  I  think  .  . 
and  Mr.  Rogers  himself  is  not  to  be  visible — and  she  her- 
self will  mention  it  to  nobody.  It  was  hard  to  say  '  no  ' — 
yes  perhaps  '  no '  would  have  been  better.     Do  you  think 


250   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  18 

so?    Mrs.  Bracebridge  is  an  artist  and  lives  or  lived  on 
Mount  Hymettus ! — and  she  is  not  to  hear  my  name  even. 

Now — good  night,  very  dear ! — most  dear  of  all !  I  will 
not  teaze  you  for  a  fortnight,  I  think.  Ah — if  ever  I  can 
do  that  again,  you  shall  not  bejxdned,  .  .  you  shall  think 
that  my  heart  and  life  are  in  you,  and  that,  if  they  seem 
to  natter,  it  is  that  they  go  deeper.  All  I  am  is  yours — 
which  is  different  from  .  .  all  I  have.  'All  I  have,'  is 
when  I  may  lean  my  head  down  on  the  shoulder — 

So  let  me  be  your  own 
Ba. 

Of  those  two  letters,  one  was  in  the  post  before  seven 
the  evening  before.     Now,  is  it  not  too  bad? 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  June  18,  1846.] 

Did  you  really  kiss  me  on  the  two  eyes,  my  Ba?  I 
cannot  say  '  perhaps  at  the  very  time  I  was  thinking 
of  you,' — more  than  'when  I  was  breathing ' — I  breathe 
always,  think  of  you  always, — kiss  you  almost  always. 
You  dear,  dearest  Ba!  Do  pain  me  so  again  and  again, — 
if  you  will  so  cure  me  every  time !  But  you  should  not 
imagine  that  I  can  mistake  the  motive, — as  if  you  loved 
me  less  and  therefore  wrote — oh,  no — but  there  is  no 
getting  rid  of  these  mistakings  before  the  time: 
they  bear  their  fruit  and  die  away  naturally  .  .  the 
hoe  never  cuts  up  all  their  roots.  I  shall  trust  to  hear 
you  say  one  day  I  am  past  such  mistaking — but — at 
Amain? 

I  am  very  glad,  love,  you  go  to  Mr.  Bogers'  to-day — 
what  harm  can  follow?  The  evil  in  the  other  case  was  a 
very  precise  and  especial  one.  They  say  his  pictures  are 
well  worth  seeing.  Tell  me,  make  me  see  you  seeing !  I 
am  glad,  too,  Mrs.  Jameson  knows  .  .  but  her  gracious- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  251 

ness  I  expected,  because  the  causes  you  were  able  to  give 
her  would  really  operate  just  in  that  manner :  indeed  they 
are  the  sole  causes  of  the  secresy  we  have  observed.  I 
cannot  help  liking  Mrs.  Jameson  more,  much  more  since 
her  acquaintance  with  you.  Hazlitt  says  somewhere  that 
the  misery  of  consorting  with  country-people  is  felt  when 
you  try  for  their  sympathy  as  to  favourite  actors — '  Lis- 
ton? '  says  the  provincial,  '  never  heard  of  him  '—but — ■ 
whoever  knows  Miss  Barrett  .  .  '  Ba, '  they  are  not  going 
to  be  let  known  .  .  of  such  a  person  i~  know  something 
more  than  of  any  other. 

Talking  of  Hahn-Hahn,  read  this  note  of  Mrs.  Carlyle's 
— although  to  my  mortification  I  find  that  the  wise  man 
is  not  so  peremptory  on  the  virtue  of  one  of  Ba's  qualities 
as  I,  the  ignorant  man,  must  continue  to  be.  Never  mind, 
— perhaps  '  in  the  long  run '  I  may  love  you  as  if  you 
were  exactly  to  Mrs.  Carlyle's  mind! 

I  want  to  tell  you  a  thing  not  to  be  forgotten  about 
Florence  as  a  residence  for  any  time.  You  spoke  of  the 
had  water  at  Ravenna  .  .  which  if  a  serious  inconvenience 
anywhere  is  a  very  plague  in  Italy ;  well,  the  medical  peo- 
ple, according  to  Vallery,  attribute  the  black  hollow  cheeks 
and  sunk  eyes  and  general  ill  health  of  the  Florentines  to 
their  vile  water;  impregnated  with  lead,  I  think.  There 
is  only  one  good  fountain  in  the  city — that  opposite  Santa 
Croce;  I  religiously  abstained  from  drinking  water  there 
— and  felt  the  privation  the  more  from  having  just  left 
Borne,  where  the  water  is  the  most  perfectly  delicious  and 
abundant  and,  they  say,  wholesome — in  the  world.  That 
one  objection  is  decisive  against  Bavenna— but  then,  why 
do  the  English  all  live  at  Florence? 

It  makes  me  happy  to  hear  of  your  achievements  and 
not  of  any  ill  result— Tiapjpy  !  Is  it  quite  so  warm  to-day  ? 
If  it  were  to  rain  to-morrow  (!),  IP — our  party  would  be 
postponed  till  the  next  day,  Saturday,  I  believe  .  .  there 
was  a  kind  of  understanding  to  that  effect — now,  in  that 
case,  might  I  go  to  you  to-morrow?    In  the  case  of  real 


252   THE  LETTEES  OP  BOBEBT  BBOWNING  [June  18 

heavy  rain  only the  letter  to-morrow  will  tell  me  per- 
haps .  . 

Goodbye,  dearest  dearest ;  I  love  you  wholly — 

s.. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  June  19,  1846.] 

But  I  have  not  been  to  Mr.  Rogers's  to-day,  after  all. 
I  had  a  note  from  Mrs.  Jameson,  to  put  off  our  excursion 
to  Saturday  .  .  if  I  consented  to  Saturday !  but  of  course 
I  would  not  consent  to  Saturday — and  as  she  intimated 
that  another  day  would  do  as  well,  we  shall  have  another 
day  fixed,  I  suppose.  What  a  good  fruit  it  would  be  of 
the  confession  I  made  in  the  park,  if  she  were  to  ask  you 
to  go!  !  \  Oh,  I  should  like  that — I  should  like  it  not- 
withstanding the  drawbacks.  It  would  be  a  fair  gain  upon 
the  usual  times  of  meeting — only  that  I  could  not  care 
quite  as  much  for  the  pictures — yet,  those  too,  I  should 
like  to  see  with  you,  rather  than  apart  from  you.  And 
you  never  saw  them  .  .  you !  Is  there  a  hope  of  her  ask- 
ing you  when  you  are  at  Greenwich  together?  Now  I 
have  got  this  into  my  head,  it  will  not  go  out  again — oh, 
you  must  try  and  enchant  her  properly  at  Greenwich  and 
lead  her  into  asking  you.  Yet,  with  you  or  without  you 
in  the  body,  the  spirit  of  you  and  the  influence  of  you  are 
always  close  to  my  spirit  when  it  discerns  any  beauty  or 
feels  any  joy ;  if  I  am  happy  on  any  day  it  is  through  you 
wholly,  whether  you  are  absent  or  present,  dearest,  and 
ever  dearest ! 

And  so,  instead  of  Mr.  Rogers's  pictures,  I  have  been 
seeing  you  in  my  thoughts,  as  I  sate  here  all  alone  to-day. 
When  everybody  was  at  dinner  I  remembered  that  I  had 
not  been  out — it  was  nearly  eight  .  .  there  was  no  com- 
panion for  me  unless  I  called  one  from  the  dinner-table; 
and  Wilson,  whom  I  thought  of,  had  taken  holiday. 
Therefore  I  put  on  my  bonnet,  as  a  knight  of  old  took  his 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  253 

sword, — aspiring  to  the  pure  heroic, — and  called  Flush, 
and  walked  downstairs  and  into  the  street,  all  alone — that 
was  something  great!  And,  with  just  Flush,  I  walked 
there,  up  and  down  in  glorious  independence.  Belgium 
might  have  felt  so  in  casting  off  the  yoke.  As  to  Flush, 
he  frightened  me  a  little  and  spoilt  my  vain-glory — for 
Flush  has  a  very  good,  stout  vain-glory  of  his  own,  and, 
although  perfectly  fond  of  me,  has  no  idea  whatever  of 
being  ruled  over  by  me ! —  (he  looks  beautiful  scorn  out  of 
his  golden  eyes,  when  I  order  him  to  do  this  or  this)  .  . 
and  Flush  chose  to  walk  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
— he  would, — he  insisted  on  it!  and  every  moment  I  ex- 
pected him  to  disappear  into  some  bag  of  the  dogstealers, 
as  an  end  to  his  glory,  a  lid.  Happily,  however,  I  have 
no  moral  with  which  to  point  my  tale — it's  a  very  immoral 
story,  and  shows  neither  Flush  nor  myself  punished  for 
our  sins.  Often,  I  am  not  punished  for  my  sins,  .  .  am 
I?  You  know  that  .  .  dearest,  dearest!  But  then,  even 
you  are  not  punished  for  your  sins  .  .  .  when  you  flatter 
so!  Ah,  it  is  happy  for  you,  and  for  your  reputation  in 
good  taste  and  sense,  that  you  cannot  very  well  say  such 
things  except  to  me,  who  cannot  believe  them.  For  the 
rest,  the  eyes  were  certainly  blinded,  .  .  being  kissed  too 
hard. 

How  I  like  Mrs.  Carlyle's  note !  You  will  go  of  course. 
But  it  will  not  rain  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  not  have  the 
advantage  of  coming  through  it  to  me,  .  .  for  this  reason 
(among  others  far  better) ,  that  I  have  engaged  to  see,  at 
three  or  four  perhaps,  a  friend  of  ours  from  the  country. 
She  is  in  London  for  only  two  days  and  wrote  to  beg  me 
to  see  her,  and  to-day  I  escaped  by  half  a  rudeness,  and, 
if  I  do  to-morrow,  it  will  be  by  a  whole  rudeness.  So, 
not  to-morrow !  And,  if  Saturday  should  be  taken  from 
us,  we  must  find  three  days  somehow  next  week — it  will 
be  easily  done. 

As  to  Florence,  the  flood  of  English  is  the  worst  water 
of  all  in  the  argument.     And  then  Dr.  Chambers  '  warned 


254  THE  LETTERS  OF  BOBEBT  BBOWNING   [June  19 

me  off '  Florence,  as  being  too  cold  for  the  winter.  It 
would  be  as  well  not  to  begin  by  being  ill ;  and  half  I  am 
afraid  of  Ravenna — though  Ravenna  may  not  be  cold,  and 
though  Shelley  may  belie  it  altogether.  '  A  miserable 
place  '  he  calls  it  in  the  '  Letters. '  Still  I  observe  that  his 
first  impressions  are  apt  to  be  darker  than  remain.  For 
instance,  he  began  by  hating  Pisa,  and  preferred  it  to 
most  places,  afterwards.  There  is  Pisa  by  the  way !  Or 
your  Sorrento  .  .  Salerno  .  .  Amalfi  .  .  you  shall  con- 
sider if  you  please — find  a  new  place  if  you  like. 

It  is  my  last  letter  perhaps  till  I  see  you.  May  God 
bless  you,  I  lift  up  my  heart  to  say.  How  happy  I  ought 
to  be,  .  .  and  am,  .  .  with  your  thoughts  all  round  me, 
so,  as  you  describe !    Let  them  call  me  your  very  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  19,  1846.] 

I  shall  hardly  be  able,  I  am  afraid,  to  get  your  letter 
.  .  if  one  should  come  through  your  dear  goodness,  my 
own  Ba  .  .  .  before  I  go  out  .  .  having  to  meet  the 
Procters'  party  in  Town :  so  I  will  just  write  my  joy  at 
its  being  little  more  now  than  twenty-four  hours  before 
I  shall  see  you,  I  trust.  The  day  is  cool  and  nearer  rain 
than  I  fancied  probable — but,  oh  the  task-work,  Egyptian 
bondage,  that  much  going-out  would  be  to  me,  who  am 
tired  {unreasonably)  beforehand  on  this  first  and  most 
likely  last  occasion  during  the  year.  It  is  a  pity  that 
I  am  so  ignorant  about  Hahn-Hahn's  books — one,  '  Faus- 
tina, '  I  got  last  night,  but  have  neither  heart  nor  time  to 
'  get  it  up  '  in  a  couple  of  hours. 

Something  you  said  on  Mrs.  Jameson's  authority 
amused  me — the  encomium  on  my  grace  in  sitting  still  to 
see  the  play  and  not  jumping  on  the  stage  to  act  too — as 
if  it  were  not  the  best  privilege  one  finds  in  being  '  known  ' 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  255 

never  so  little,  that  it  dispenses  one  from  having  to  make 
oneself  known.  When  you  are  shipwrecked  among  Carib- 
bee  Indians  you  are  forced  to  begin  professing  '  I  can  make 
baskets,  and  tell  fortunes,  and  foresee  eclipses — so  don't 
eat  me ! '  And  even  there  if  they  threatened  nothing  of 
the  kind,  I  should  be  content  to  live  and  die  as  unhonoured 
as  one  of  their  own  cabbage-trees. 

I  must  go  now — the  day  gets  hotter,  but  then  our  day 
draws  nearer — All  my  heart  is  yours,  best  of  dearest  loves, 
my  own  Ba,  as  I  am  your  own — 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  June  22,  1846.  ] 

What  I  told  you  yesterday  is  very  often  in  my  thoughts, 
my  own  Ba — that  with  respect  to  the  love  for  you  '  I  see 
what  I  know  and  testify  what  I  have  seen. '  I  know  what 
is,  and  ivhy  it  is — so  far  as  my  faculties  of  perception  al- 
low, of  course — I  rest  on  you  just  as  I  sate  on  the  grass  in 
the  garden  this  morning  with  the  very  earth's  immensity 
beneath :  that  is  very  different  from  trusting  to  this  chair 
which  is  firm  enough  now,  but  might  break  down  from  a 
thousand  causes.  How  entirely  I  believe  in  you,  Ba! 
When  you  praise  me,  I  believe  that  you  are  in  error,  yet 

believe  it  none 1  know  I  am  not  so  truthful  to  you — not 

so  invariably,  in  the  least  as  in  the  greatest  matters — in 
the  greatest,  in  the  ordinary  even,  I  speak  pure  truth, — 
but  the  old  conventional  habits  cling,  as  I  find  out  on  re- 
flection sometimes — but  I  aspire  no  less  to  become  alto- 
gether open  to  your  sight  as  you  are  to  me, — I  in  my 
degree, — like  a  smallest  of  lake's  face  under  the  sky's. 
and  for  this  also  I  shall  have  to  bless  you,  my  only  Ba, — 
my  only  Ba ! 

I  ought  never  .  .  I  think  I  will  not  again  .  .  attempt 
to  write  down  why  I  love  you  .  .  (not,  not  that  it  is  done 
here,  but  alluded-to,  touched  upon  .  .)     The  elements  of 


256  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  22 

the  love  .  .  (I  say  '  the '  love,  mine,  because  I  will  not 
know,  nor  hear,  nor  be  taught  anything  by  anybody  else 
about  -  love, '  the  one  love  everybody  knows,  it  seems,  and 
lives  and  dies  by) — my  love's  elements  are  so  many  that 
the  attempt  to  describe  them  is  to  bring  about  this  failure 
.  .  the  first  that  comes  is  taken  up  and  treated  of  at  length 
.  .  as  that  element  of  '  trust '  just  now  .  .  and  then,  in  the 
feeling  of  incompetence  which  makes  the  pen  sink  away 
and  turns  the  mind  off,  the  others  are  let  pass  by  un- 
named, much  less  described,  or  at  least  acknowledged  for 
the  undeniable  elements  they  are.  What  were  all  the  trust 
without — and  thus  I  could  begin  again !  Let  me  say  no 
more  now — and  forgive  all  the  foolishness  .  .  it  is  not  for 
my  wisdom  you  are  to  love  me,  Ba !  Except  that  if  you 
agreed  too  heartily  with  me  on  that  point,  I  should  very 
likely  be  found  turning  round  on  you  with  '  not  wise, 
when  I  adore  you  so  ?  '  Wise  or  unwise,  I  do  adore  you, 
my  Ba !  And  more  and  evermore !  But  see  how  I  need 
your  letters  to  train  mine,  to  lead  them  into  something 
more  like  the  true  way  .  .  and  to-morrow  the  letter  will 
come — will  it  not?  And  mine  shall  be  less  about  myself 
and  more  about  you — whom  may  God  bless,  prays  your 
own 

E. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  June  22,  1846.] 

I  write  to  you  in  the  drawing-room,  and  have  brought 
down  with  me,  I  find,  no  smaller  paper — but  it  can't  be 
filled,  can  it?  though  I  have  to  tell  you  the  great  news 
about  the  lilies  .  .  that  all,  except  two,  are  in  full  blow  .  . 
and  that  the  two  are  unfolding  .  .  I  can  almost  see  the 
leaves  move.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.  They  will 
live,  .  .  and  last  longer  than  the  roses,  .  .  which  I  shall 
have  to  tell  you  by  history  as  well  as  prediction,  presently. 
The  next  news  is  not  so  good, — for  I  have  had  a  note  from 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  257 

Mrs.  Jameson  to  the  effect  that  she  will  come  to  take  me 
to  the  pictures  to-morrow,  Monday — so  that  there  will  be 
no  time  to  be  diplomatic.  My  hope  was  of  your  meeting  her 
at  Mr.  Carlyle's,  before  she  could  arrange  anything  finally, 
— and  really  I  do  feel  as  disappointed  as  if  I  had  had  a 
reason  for  the  hope.  Now,  unless  we  have  another  mir- 
acle, there's  an  end,  I  suppose. 

Think  of  my  having  left  Flush  behind  me  fast  asleep. 
He  dashes  at  the  door  in  the  most  peremptory  way,  and 
nearly  throws  me  backward  when  I  open  it,  with  his  leap- 
ing-up-joy  .  .  if  it  is  not  rather  his  reproach. 

Now  I  am  here  all  alone,  except  Flush— sitting,  lean- 
ing against  the  open  window  with  my  feet  curled  up,  and, 
at  them,  Flush  curled  up  too ;  and  I  writing  on  my  knee 
more  meo.  Rather  cooler  it  seems,  but  rather  too  hot  still 
it  is,  I  think.  How  did  you  get  home?  how  are  you,  dear- 
est? And  your  mother?  tell  me  of  her,  and  of  you!  You 
always,  you  know  (do  you  know?),  leave  your  presence 
with  me  in  the  flowers ;  and,  as  the  lilies  unfold,  of  course 
I  see  more  and  more  of  you  in  each  apocalypse.  Still,  the 
Saturday's  visit  is  the  worst  of  all  to  come  to  an  end,  as 
always  I  feel.  In  the  first  place  stands  Sunday,  like  a 
wall  without  a  door  in  it !  no  letter !  Monday  is  a  good 
day  and  makes  up  a  little,  but  it  does  not  prevent  Tues- 
day and  Wednesdajr  following  .  .  more  intervening  days 
than  between  the  other  meetings — or  so  it  seems.  I  for- 
got to  tell  you  that  yesterday  I  went  to  Mr.  Boyd's  house 
.  .  not  to  see  him,  but  as  a  preliminary  step  to  seeing 
him.  Arabel  went  to  his  room  to  tell  him  of  my  being 
there— we  are  both  perhaps  rather  afraid  of  meeting  after 
all  these  years  of  separation.  Quite  blind  he  is — and 
though  scarcely  older  than  Mr.  Kenyon  (perhaps  a  year  or 
two  or  three) ,  so  nervous,  that  he  has  really  made  himself 
infirm,  and  now  he  refuses  to  walk  out  or  even  to  go  down- 
stairs. A  very  peculiar  life  he  has  led  ever  since  he  lost 
his  sight,  which  he  did  when  he  was  quite  a  young  man — 
and  a  very  peculiar  person  he  is  in  all  possible  ways.  His 
Vol.  II.— 17 


258   THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [June  22 

great  faculty  is  .  .  memory  .  .  and  his  great  passion  .  . 
Greek — to  which  of  late  he  has  added  Ossian.  Otherwise, 
he  talks  like  a  man  of  slow  mind,  which  he  is,  .  .  and 
with  a  child's  way  of  looking  at  things,  such  as  would 
make  you  smile — oh,  he  talks  in  the  most  wonderfully 
childish  way !  Poor  Mr.  Boyd.  He  cares  for  me  perhaps 
more  than  he  cares  for  any  one  else  .  .  far  more  than  for 
his  own  only  daughter ;  but  he  is  not  a  man  of  deep  sensi- 
bility, and,  if  he  heard  of  my  death,  would  merely  sleep  a 
little  sounder  the  next  night.  Once  he  said  to  me  that 
whenever  he  felt  sorry  about  anything,  he  was  inclined  to 
go  to  sleep.  An  affectionate  and  grateful  regard  .  .  grate- 
ful for  many  kindnesses  .  .  I  bear  him,  for  my  part.  He 
says  that  I  should  wear  the  crown  in  poetry,  if  I  would 
but  follow  Pope — but  that  the  dreadful  system  of  running 
lines  one  into  another  ruins  everything.  When  I  talk  of 
memory,  I  mean  merely  the  mechanical  faculty.  The  asso- 
ciative, which  makes  the  other  a  high  power,  he  wants. 
So  I  went  to  his  house  in  St.  John's  Wood  yesterday,  and 
saw  the  little  garden.  Poor  Mr.  Boyd.  There,  he  lives, 
all  alone — and  never  leaving  his  chaw !  yet  cheerful  still, 
I  hear,  in  all  that  desolation.  As  for  you  and  Tennyson, 
he  never  heard  of  you  .  .  he  never  guesses  at  the  way  of 
modern  literature  .  .  and  it  is  the  intense  compliment  to 
me  when  he  reads  verses  of  mine,  '  notwithstanding  my 
corrupt  taste, '  .  .  to  quote  his  own  words. 

Dearest,  do  you  love  me  to-day?  I  think  of  you,  which 
is  quite  the  same  thing.  Think  of  me  to-morrow  at  half- 
past  four  when  Mrs.  Jameson  comes,  and  I  shall  have  all 
that  exertion  to  go  through  without  the  hope  of  you. 
Only  that  you  are  always  there  .  here! — and  I,  your 
very  own 

Ba. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABEETT  259 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  June  22,  1846.] 

If  I  only  thought  for  myself  in  this  instance,  I  should 
at  once  go  and  mount  guard  before  your  house  so  as  to 
see  you,  at  least,  for  a  moment  as  you  leave  it. 

To  hope  for  a  word  would  never  do  .  .  you  might  be 
startled,  or  simply  not  like  such  a  measure,  and  in  simili 
incontri  I  will  not  run  risks,  but  I  should  be  able  to  see  you, 
my  Ba  .  .  why  do  I  not  go  then?  People  at  doors  and 
windows  are  also  able,  alas,  to  see  me  too— so  I  stay  .  .  if 
this  is  staying  away  when  I  can  see  the  curled-up  feet  and 
kiss  them  beside, — ever-dear  feet! 

Do  you  know  the  days  and  the  times  and  the  long  in- 
terval,— you,  as  I  know?  How  strange  that  you  should 
complain,  and  I  become  the  happier !  If  I  could  alter  it, 
and  make  you  feel  no  subject  for  complaint  any  longer,  I 
ivould, — surely  I  would,  and  be  happy  in  that  too,  I  hope 
.  .  yet  the  other  happiness  needs  must  be  given  up  in  that 
case  .  .  I  cannot  reason  it  out.  I  excuse  my  present  sel- 
fish happiness  by  feeling  I  would  not  exchange  the  sad- 
ness of  being  away  from  you  for  any  imaginable  delight 
in  which  you  had  no  part.  But  I  will  have  this  delight, 
too,  my  Ba,  of  imagining  that  you  are  gratified  by  what 
you  will  see  to-day.  Tell  me  all,  and  what  is  said,  and 
how  you  are  at  the  end. 

Thank  you  meanwhile  for  the  picture  of  poor  Mr. 
Boyd  .  .  then  he  never  has  seen  you,  since  he  was  blind 
so  long  ago !  How  strange  and  melancholy — you  say  he 
is  '  cheerful, '  however.  In  that  case — think  of  unhappy 
Countess  Faustina  with  her  '  irresistible  longings, '  and 
give  her  as  much  of  your  commiseration  as  she  ought  to 
get.  What  a  horrible  book  .  .  how  have  I  brought  in 
what  I  prescribed  to  myself  '  silence  about. '  Such  char- 
acters as  Faustina  produce  the  very  worst  possible  effect 


260   THE  LETTEKS  OF  KOBERT  BROWNING  [June  22 

on  me — I  don't  know  how  they  strike  other  people — but 
I  am  at  once  incited  '  debellare  superbos  ' — to  try  at  least 
and  pull  down  the  arrogant — contempt  would  be  the  most 
Christian  of  all  the  feelings  possible  to  be  called  forth  by 
such  a  woman.  Let  me  get  back  to  you,  my  own  dearest- 
dearest, — I  do  'love  you  to-day,'  if  you  must  ask, — and 
bidding  me  think  of  you  is  all  very  well — never  bid  me 
not  think  of  you ! — and  so  never  find  out  that  there  could 
be  a  bidding  I  am  unable  to  ohej.  But  what  is  mere 
<  thinking '  ?  I  kiss  your  hand,  and  your  eyes,  and  now 
your  lips, — and  ask  for  my  heart  back  again,  to  give  it 
and  be  ever  giving  it.  No  words  can  tell  how  I  am 
your  own. 

My  mother  is  much  better, — observably  so,  to-day. 
Oh,  dearest, — I  want  you  to  read  Landor's  Dialogue  be- 
tween Tasso  and  his  Sister,  in  the  second  volume, — with 
the  exquisite  Sorrentine  scenery — do  read  it.  I  see 
your  Tasso  with  his  prominent  eyes  as  if  they  were  ever 
just  brightening  out  of  a  sorrow  that  has  broken  over 
them. 

How  I  like  (c  love  '  is  not  my  word  now)  but  like  Lan- 
dor,  more  and  more ! 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  June  23,  1846.] 

Well — I  did  look  everywhere  for  you  to-day, — but  not 
more  than  I  always  do — always  I  do,  when  I  go  out,  look 
for  you  in  the  streets  .  .  round  the  corners !  And  Mrs. 
Jameson  came  alone  and  she  and  I  were  alone  at  Mr. 
Rogers's,  and  you  must  help  me  to  thank  her  some  day 
for  her  unspeakable  kindness  to  me,  though  she  did  not 
leap  to  the  height  of  the  inspiration  of  managing  to  let  us 
see  those  pictures  together.  Ah — if  she  had,  it  would 
have  been  too  much.  As  it  is,  she  gave  me  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure  in  the  kindest  of  ways  .  .  and  I  let  it  be  pleas- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  261 

ure,  by  mixing  it  with  enough  thoughts  of  you — (otherwise 
how  could  it  be  pleasure?) — and  she  showed  the  pictures, 
and  instructed  me,  really  taking  pains  and  instructing  me 
.  .  and  telling  me  how  Rubens  painted  landscapes  .  .  as 
how  should  my  ignorance  guess?  .  .  .  and  various  other 
unknown  things.  The  first  word  as  we  reached  the  door, 
frightened  me — for  she  said  that  perhaps  we  might  see  Mr. 
Rogers  .  .  which  was  a  little  beyond  our  covenant— but 
we  did  not  see  him,  and  I  suppose  the  Antinous  on  the 
staircase  is  not  at  all  like  him.  Grand  it  is,  in  its  serene 
beauty.  On  a  colossal  scale,  in  white  marble.  For  the 
pictures,  they  are  full  of  wonder  and  divinity — each  giv- 
ing the  measure  of  a  man's  soul.  And  think  .  .  sketches 
from  the  hand  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael !  And  a 
statuette  in  clay,  alive  with  the  life  of  Michael  Angelo's 
finger — the  blind  eyes  looking  .  .  seeing  .  .  as  if  in  scorn 
of  all  clay !  And  the  union  of  energy  and  meditation  in 
the  whole  attitude!  You  have  seen  the  marble  of  that 
figure  in  Florence.  Then,  a  divine  Virgin  and  child,  worn 
and  faded  to  a  shadow  of  Raphael's  genius,  as  Mrs.  Jame- 
son explained  to  me — and  the  famous  '  Ecce  Homo '  of 
Guido  .  .  and  Rubens'  magnificent  'version,'  as  she  called 
it,  of  Andrea  Mantegna's  '  Triumph  of  Julius  Caesar.'  So 
triumphing  to  this  day  !  And  Titian,  and  Tintoretto  .  .  . 
and  what  did  not  strike  me  the  least,  .  .  a  portrait  of 
Rembrandt  by  himself,  which  if  his  landscapes,  as  they 
say,  were  '  dug  out  of  nature,'  looks  as  if  it  were  dug  out 
of  humanity.  Such  a  rugged,  dark,  deep  subterraneous 
face,  .  .  yet  inspired — !  seeming  to  realize  that  God  took 
clay  and  breathed  into  the  nostrils  of  it.  There  are  both 
the  clay,  and  the  divinity  !  And  think !  I  saw  the  agree- 
ment between  the  bookseller  and  Milton  for  the  sale  of 
Paradise  Lost!  with  Milton's  signature  and  seal!  and 
'  Witnessed  by  William  Greene,  Mr.  Milton's  servant'  How 
was  it  possible  not  to  feel  giddy  with  such  sights !  Al- 
most I  could  have  run  my  head  against  the  wall,  I  felt, 
with  bewilderment — and  Mrs.  Jameson  must  have  been 


262   THE  LETTEES  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING   [June  23 

edified,  I  have  thought  since,  through  my  intense  stupidity. 
I  saw  too  the  first  edition  of  '  Paradise  Lost. '  The  rooms 
are  elegant,  with  no  pretension  to  splendour  .  .  which  is 
good  taste,  a  'part  of  the  good  taste  everywhere.  Only,  on 
the  chimney-piece  of  the  dining-room,  were  two  small 
busts,  beautiful  busts,  white  with  marble,  .  .  and  repre- 
senting  now,  whom,  of  gods  and  men,  would  you  select 

for  your  Lares  .  .  to  help  your  digestion  and  social  mer- 
riment? .  .  .  Caligula  and  Nero  in  childhood!  The  'child- 
hood '  is  horribly  suggestive  to  me !  On  the  side-board  is 
Pope's  bust,  by  Roubillac — a  too  expressive,  miserable 
face — drawn  with  disease  and  bitter  thoughts,  and  very 
painful,  I  felt,  to  look  at.  These  things  I  liked  least,  in 
the  selection  and  arrangement.  Everything  beside  was 
admirable :  and  I  write  and  write  of  it  all  as  if  I  were  not 
tired — but  I  am  .  .  and  most  with  the  excitement  and 
newness.  Mrs.  Jameson  breakfasted  with  Mr.  Rogers 
yesterday,  she  said,  and  met  the  Countess  Hahn-Hahn, 
who  was  talking  of  modern  literature  when  her  host  sud- 
denly stopped  her  with  a  question  .  .  '  Did  you  ever  read 
Addison? ' 

How  late  it  is.  Must  I  have  done,  before  I  have  half 
done? 

What  I  did  not  tell  you  yesterday  is  very  much  in  my 
thoughts  .  .  do  you  know?  /,  too,  '  see  what  I  know  and 
testify  what  I  have  felt  .  .  and,  as  far  as  my  faculties  of 
perception  go ! '  I  am  confident  that  you  had  better  not 
look  for  a  single  reason  for  loving  me.  Which  is  worst? 
A  bad  reason,  or  no  reason  at  all?  A  bad  reason,  /  think 
— and  accept  the  alternative.  Ah  .  .  my  own  only  be- 
loved. And  how  you  write  to  me  to-night !  I  will  read 
what  you  tell  me  in  Landor  .  .  but  no  words  of  inspired 
lips  or  pen  .  .  no  poet's  word,  of  the  divinest,  .  .  ever 
went  to  my  heart  as  yours  in  these  letters !  Do  I  not  love 
you?  am  I  not  your  own?  And  while  deserving  nothing 
of  all  of  it,  I  feel  it  at  least — respond  to  it — my  heart  is  in 
your  hand.     May  God  bless  you  .  .  '  and  me  in  that, ' — ■ 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  263 

because  even  He  could  not  bless  me  without  that.     Which 
He  knows. 

Your  own. 

But  there  is  much  beauty  in  Faustina — oh,  surely ! 
The  lilies,  all  in  blow  except  one  .   .  which  is  blowing. 
Are  we  going  to  have  a  storm  to-night?     It  lightens 
lightens  I 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  23,  1846.] 

I  was  just  on  the  point  of  answering  your  dear  letter, 
in  all  the  good  spirits  it  might  be  expected  to  wake  in  me, 
when  the  sad  news  of  poor  Hay  don's  death  stopped  all; 
much  I  feel  it,  for  the  light  words  of  my  own  about  his 
extravagance,  as  I  had  been  told  of  it,  but  very  much  more 
on  your  account,  who  were  so  lately  in  communication 
with  him.  I  earnestly  hope, — I  will  trust — you  have  not 
been  rudely  apprised  of  this — I  am  happy  to  remember 
that  you  do  not  see  the  newspaper  in  the  morning, — others 
will  see  it  first;  perhaps  there  maybe  no  notice  in  the 
Chronicle  at  all,  or  on  the  other  hand,  a  more  circumstan- 
tial one  than  this  in  the  Times  which  barely  says — '  that 
B.E.H.  died  suddenly  at  his  residence — yesterday  morn- 
ing. He  was  in  his  usual  health  on  the  previous  evening, 
and  it  is  believed  that  his  decease  was  hastened  by  pecu- 
niary embarrassment ' — and  he  is  called  '  the  unfortunate 
gentleman ' — which  with  the  rest  implies  the  very  worst, 
I  fear.  If  by  any  chance  this  should  be  the  first  intima- 
tion you  receive  of  it  .  .  do  not  think  me  stupid  nor 
brutal, — for  I  thought  again  and  again  as  to  the  right 
course  to  take  .  .  whether  it  would  not  be  best  to  be  silent 
alogether  and  wait  and  see  .  .  but  in  that  case  I  should 
have  surprised  you  more  by  my  cold  letter, — such  an  one 
as  I  could  bring  myself  to  write, — for  how  were  it  possibly 


264  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [June  23 

to  speak  of  pictures  and  indifferent  matters  when  you  per- 
haps have  been  shocked,  made  ill  by  this  news?  If  I 
have  done  wrong,  forgive  me,  my  own  best,  dearest  Ba — 
I  would  give  the  world  to  know  how  you  are.  The  storm, 
too,  and  lightning  may  have  made  you  even  more  than 
ordinarily  unfit  to  be  startled  and  grieved.  God  knows 
and  must  help  you !    I  am  but  your  devoted — 

How  glad  I  am  you  told  me  you  had  never  seen  him. 
And  perhaps  he  may  be  after  all  a  mere  acquaintance  .  . 
anything  I  will  fancy  that  is  likely  to  relieve  you  of  pain ! 
Dearest  dearest ! 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  24,  1846.] 

Ever  tenderest,  kindest  and  most  beloved,  I  thank  you 
from  the  quick  of  my  heart,  where  the  thought  of  you  lives 
constantly  !  In  this  world  full  of  sadness,  of  which  I  have 
had  my  part  .  .  full  of  sadness  and  bitterness  and  wrong 
.  .  full  of  most  ghastly  contrasts  of  life  and  death,  strength 
and  weakness  side  by  side  .  .  it  is  too  much,  to  have  you 
to  hold  by,  as  the  river  rushes  on  .  .  too  much  good,  too 
much  grace  for  such  as  I,  .  .  as  I  feel  always,  and  cannot 
cease  to  feel ! 

Oh  yes — it  has  shocked  me,  this  dreadful  news  of  poor 
Mr.  Hay  don— it  chilled  the  blood  in  my  veins  when  I 
heard  it  from  Alfred,  who,  seeing  the  Times  at  the  Great 
Western  Terminus,  wrote  out  the  bare  extract  and  sent  it  to 
me  by  the  post.  He  just  thought  that  the  Chronicle  did 
not  mention  it,  .  .  and  that  I  had  not  seen  Mr.  Hay  don 
.   .  he  did  not  perhaps  think  how  it  would  shock  me 

For,  this  1  cannot  help  thinking.  Could  anyone — could 
my  own  hand  even  .  .  have  averted  what  has  Iwup'pened? 
My  head  and  heart  have  ached  to-day  over  the  inactive 
hand !  But,  for  the  moment,  it  was  out  of  my  power,  with- 
out an  application  where  it  would  have  been  useless — and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  265 

then,  I  never  fancied  this  case  to  be  more  than  a  piece  of 
a  continuous  case  .  .  of  a  habit  fixed.  Two  years  ago  he 
sent  me  boxes  and  pictures  precisely  so,  and  took  them 
back  again — poor,  poor  Haydon ! — as  he  will  not  this  time. 
And  he  said  last  week  that  Peel  had  sent  him  fifty  pounds 
.  .  .  adding  .  .  '  I  do  not  however  want  charity,  but  em- 
ployment.' Also,  I  have  been  told  again  and  again  (oh, 
never  by  you  my  beloved !)  that  to  give  money  there,  was  to 
drop  it  into  a  hole  of  the  ground. 

But  if  to  have  dropped  it  so,  dust  to  dust,  would  have 
saved  a  living  man — what  then? 

Yet  of  the  three  notes  I  had  from  him  last  week,  the 
first  was  written  so  lightly,  that  the  second  came  to  desire 
me  not  to  attribute  to  him  a  c  want  of  feeling.'  And  who 
could  think  .  .  contemplate  .  .  this  calamity  ?  May  God 
have  mercy  on  the  strongest  of  us,  for  we  are  weak.  Oh, 
that  a  man  so  high  hearted  and  highly  endowed  .  .  a  bold 
man,  who  has  thrown  down  gauntlet  after  gauntlet  in  the 
face  of  the  world — that  such  a  man  should  go  mad  for  a  few 
paltry  pounds !  For  he  was  mad  if  he  killed  himself !  of 
that  I  am  as  sure  as  if  I  knew  it.  If  he  killed  himself,  he 
was  mad  first. 

Some  day,  when  I  have  the  heart  to  look  for  it,  you 
shall  see  his  last  note.  I  understand  now  that  there  are 
touches  in  it  of  a  desperate  pathos — but  never  could  he 
have  meditated  self-destruction  while  writing  that  note. 
He  said  he  should  write  six  sets  of  lecturos  more  .  .  six 
more  volumes.  He  said  he  was  painting  a  new  back- 
ground to  a  picture,  which  made  him  '  feel  as  if  his  soul 
had  wings.'  And  then  he  hoped  his  brain  would  not  turn. 
And  he  '  gloried '  in  the  naval  dangers  of  his  son  at  sea. 
And  he  repeated  an  old  ijhrase  of  his,  which  I  had  heard 
from  him  often  before,  and  which  now  rings  hollowly  to  the 
ears  of  my  memory  .  .  that  he  couldn't  and  wouldn't  die. 
Strange  and  dreadful ! 

It  is  nearly  two  years  since  we  had  a  correspondence  of 
some  few  months — from  which  at  last  I  receded,  notwith- 


266   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [June  24 

standing  the  individuality  and  spirit  of  his  letters,  and 
my  admiration  for  a  certain  fervour  and  magnanimity  of 
genius,  no  one  could  deny  to  him.  His  very  faults  par- 
took of  that  nobleness.  But  for  a  year  and  a  half  or  more 
perhaps,  I  scarcely  have  written  or  heard  from  him — until 
last  week  when  he  wrote  to  ask  for  a  shelter  for  his  boxes 
and  pictures.  If  you  had  enquired  of  me  the  week  before, 
I  might  have  answered  that  I  did  not  ivish  to  renew  the  in- 
tercourse— yet  who  could  help  being  shocked  and  saddened? 
Would  it  have  availed,  to  have  dropped  something  into  that 
'  hole  in  the  ground?  '  Oh,  to  imagine  that!  Yet  a  little 
would  have  been  but  as  nothing ! — and  he  did  not  ask  even 
for  a  little — and  I  should  have  been  ashamed  to  have 
offered  but  a  little.  Yet  I  cannot  turn  the  thought  away — 
that  I  did  not  offer. 

Henry  went  to  the  house  as  I  begged  him.  His  son 
came  to  the  door,  and  to  a  general  enquiry  '  after  the 
family,'  said  that  'Mr.  Hay  don  was  dead  and  that  his 
family  were  quite  as  well  as  could  be  expected.'  That 
horrible  banality  is  all  I  know  more  than  you  know. 

Yesterday  at  Rogers's,  Mrs.  Jameson  led  me  to  his  pic- 
ture of  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena.  At  the  moment  we  looked 
at  it,  his  hand  was  scarcely  cold,  perhaps.  Surely  it  was 
not  made  of  the  commonest  clay  of  men — that  hand ! 

I  pour  out  my  thoughts  to  you,  dearest  dearest,  as  if  it 
were  right  rather  to  think  of  doing  myself  that  good  and 
relief,  than  of  you  who  have  to  read  all.  But  you  spoil  me 
into  an  excess  of  liberty,  by  your  tenderness.  Best  in  the 
world !  Oh — you  help  me  to  live — I  am  better  and  lighter 
since  I  have  drawn  near  to  you  even  on  this  paper — already 
I  am  better  and  lighter.  And  now  I  am  going  to  dream  of 
you  .  .  to  meet  you  on  some  mystical  landing  place  .  .  in 
order  to  be  quite  well  to-morrow.  Oh — we  are  so  selfish 
on  this  earth,  that  nothing  grieves  us  very  long,  let  it  be 
ever  so  grievous,  unless  we  are  touched  in  ourselves  .  .  in 
the  apple  of  our  eye  .  .  in  the  quick  of  our  heart  .  .  in 
what  you  are,  and  where  you  are  .  ,  my  own  dearest  be- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  267 

loved !  So  you  need  not  be  afraid  for  me  1  We  all  look  to 
our  own,  as  I  to  you  ;  the  thunderbolts  may  strike  the  tops 
of  the  cedars,  and,  except  in  the  first  start,  none  of  us  be 
moved.  True  it  is  of  me — not  of  you  perhaps — certainly 
you  are  better  than  I,  in  all  things.  Best  in  the  world, 
you  are ! — no  one  is  like  you.  Can  you  read  what  I  have 
written?  Do  not  love  me  less !  Do  you  think  that  I  can- 
not feel  you  love  me,  through  all  this  distance?  If  you 
loved  me  less,  I  should  know,  without  a  word  or  a  sign. 
Because  I  live  by  your  loving  me !    I  am  your 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  24,  1846.  ] 

But,  dearest  love — I  have  just  come  in  later  than  I 
expected,  I  am  happy  to  say  .  .  for  your  note  only  just 
arrives  too,  they  say  .  .  and  I  should  have  been  frightened 
more  than  I  need  say.  All  blessing  on  you,  Ba.  I  have 
seen  no  paper, — but  Countess  Hahn-Hahn  said  across 
Carlyle's  table  that  poor  H.  had  attempted  to  shoot  him- 
self and  then  chosen  another  method — too  successful. 
Horrible  indeed —  All  to  say  now  is,  I  shall  be  with  you 
to-morrow, — my  very  own,  dearest  of  all  dear  created 
things — my  life  and  pride  and  joy — (Bless  you).  R. 

There  is  nothing  in  to-day's  Times  I  find — 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  26,  1846.] 

I  drew  the  table  to  the  fire  before  I  wrote  this.  Here 
is  cool  weather,  grateful  to  those  overcome  by  last  week's 
heat,  I  suppose ! — much  as  one  conceives  of  a  day's  starva- 
tion being  grateful  to  people  who  were  overfeasted  some 
time  back.    But  the  coolness  (that  is,  piercing  cold  as  the 


268   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [June  26 

north  wind  can  make)  sets  me  to  ponder  on  what  you  said 
yesterday, — of  considering  summer  as  beginning  next 
Wednesday,  or  there  about,  and  ending  by  consequence 
with  September.  Our  time  is  '  at  the  Summer's  end  ' :  and 
it  does  strike  me  that  there  may  be  but  too  many  inter- 
positions beside  that  of  '  my  own  will '  .  .  far  too  many. 
If  those  equinoctial  winds  disturb  the  sea,  the  cold  weather 
adds  to  the  difficulties  of  the  land-journey  .  .  then  the  will 
may  interpose  or  stand  aloof  .  .  I  cannot  take  you  and 
kill  you  .  .  really,  inevitably  kill  you!  As  it  is  .  .  or 
rather,  as  it  might  be,  I  should  feel  during  a  transit  under 
the  most  favourable  circumstances  possible,  somewhat  as 
the  performer  of  that  trick  by  which  a  full  glass  of  water 
resting  in  the  open  hand  is  made  to  describe  a  circle  from 
above  to  below  and  back  without  spilling  a  drop — through 
some  good-natured  suspension,  in  the  operator's  interest, 
of  just  a  fundamental  law  of  the  universe,  no  more !  There- 
fore if  any  September  weather  shall  happen  in  September 
.  .  let  us  understand  and  wait  .  .  another  year !  and  an- 
other, and  another. 

Now,  have  I  ever,  with  all  those  askings,  asked  you  once 
too  often,  that  is,  unnecessarily — 'if  this  should  be,' — or 
'  when  this  should  be?  '  What  is  my  '  will '  to  do  with  it? 
Can  I  keep  the  winds  away,  alas?  My  own  will  has  all 
along  been  annihilated  before  you, — with  respect  to  you — 
I  should  never  be  able  to  say  '  she  shall  dine  on  fish,  or 
fruit, '  '  She  shall  wear  silk  gloves  or  thread  gloves ' — even 
to  exercise  in  fancy  that  much  '  will  over  you  '  is  revolting 
— I  will  this,  never  to  be  '  over  you '  if  I  could ! 

So,  you  decide  here  as  elsewhere — but  do  decide,  Ba, 
my  own  only  Ba — do  think,  to  decide.  I  can  know  noth- 
ing here  as  to  what  is  gained  or  lost  by  delay  or  anticipa- 
tion^— I  only  refer  to  the  few  obvious  points  of  the  ad- 
vantage of  our  '  flight  not  being  in  the  winter ' — and  the 
consideration  that  the  difficulty  in  another  quarter  will 
never  be  less  nor  more, — therefore  is  out  of  the  question. 

I  will  tell  you  something  I  meant  to  speak  of  yesterday. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  269 

Mrs.  Jameson  said  Mr.  Kenyon  had  assured  her,  with  the 
kindest  intentions,  that  it  was  quite  vain  to  make  those 
offers  of  company  to  Pisa  or  elsewhere,  for  your  Father 
would  never  give  his  consent,  and  the  very  rationality  of 
the  plan,  and  probability  of  the  utmost  benefit  following 
the  adoption  of  it,  would  be  the  harder  to  forego  the  more 
they  were  entertained — whereupon,  '  having  the  passions 
of  his  kind  he  spoke  some  certain  things ' — bitter  and  un- 
avoidable. Then  Mrs.  J.  spoke  too,  as  you  may  imagine; 
apparently  from  better  knowledge  than  even  I  possess. 
Now  I  repeat  this  to  your  common-sense,  my  Ba — it  is  not 
hard  to  see  that  you  must  be  silent  and  suffering,  where  no 
other  can  or  will  be  either — so  that  if  a  verdict  needs  must 
be  pronounced  on  our  conduct,  it  will  be  '  the  world's  '  and 
not  an  individual's — and  for  once  a  fair  one.  Mrs.  Jame- 
son's very  words  were  .  .  (writing  from  what  has  been, 
observe — what  is  irrevocably  past,  and  not  what  may  be) — 
'  I  feel  unhappy  when  in  her  presence  .  .  impelled  to  do 
her  some  service,  and  impeded.  Can  nothing  be  done  to 
rescue  her  from  this?  ought  it  to  continue?  '  So  speaks — 
not  your  lover ! — who,  as  he  told  you,  did  long  to  answer 
'  someone  with  attempt,  at  least ! '  But  it  was  best,  for 
Mrs.  Jameson  would  be  blamed  afterward,  as  Mr.  K.  might 
be  abused,  as  ourselves  will  be  vituperated,  as  my  family 
must  be  calumniated  .  .  by  whom  ? 

Do  you  feel  me  kiss  your  feet  while  I  write  this?  I 
think  you  must,  Ba!  There  is  surely, — I  trust,  surely  no 
impatience  here,  in  this  as  in  the  other  letter — if  there  is, 
I  will  endeavour  to  repress  it  .  .  but  it  will  be  difficult — 
for  I  love  you,  and  am  not  a  stock  nor  a  stone. 

And  as  we  are  now, — another  year! 

Well,  kissing  the  feet  answers  everything,  declares 
everything — and  I  kiss  yours,  my  own  Ba. 


270   THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING   [June  26 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  26,  1846.] 

Arabel  insists  on  my  going  out  in  the  carriage,  but  I 
will  not,  I  say,  before  I  have  written  my  letter — and  while 
we  talk,  the  rain  comes  down  like  a  guardian  angel,  and  I 
cannot  go  out  before  I  have  written  my  letter,  as  is  apparent 
to  all.  Dearest,  you  did  me  such  good  yesterday  with  see- 
ing you  and  hearing  you,  that  I  slept  better  and  am  better 
altogether,  and  after  a  little  change  into  the  air,  shall  be 
well — and  how  is  your  head?  Now  do  not  forget  to  tell 
me  particularly.  Say  too  whether  you  found  your  friend 
and  had  the  right  quantity  of  talk  and  got  home  without 
being  the  worse  for  him  .  .  or  me  ! 

I  have  not  had  the  heart  to  look  at  the  newspapers,  but 
hear  that  Sir  Robert  Peel  has  provided  liberally  for  the 
present  necessities  of  the  poor  Haydons.  And  do  you 
know,  the  more  I  think  the  more  I  am  inclined  to  conclude 
that  the  money-distress  was  merely  an  additional  irrita- 
tion, and  that  the  despair  leading  to  the  revolt  against  life, 
had  its  root  in  disappointed  ambition.  The  world  did  not 
recognize  his  genius,  and  he  punished  the  world  by  with- 
drawing the  light.  If  he  had  not  that  thought  in  him,  I 
am  wrong.  The  cartoon  business,  and  his  being  refused 
employment  in  the  Houses  of  Parliament  .  .  that  was 
bitter :  and  then  came  his  opposition  with  Tom  Thumb  and 
the  dwarf's  triumph  .  .  he  talked  bitterly  of  that  in  a  letter 
to  me  of  last  week.  He  was  a  man,  you  see,  who  carried 
his  whole  being  and  sensibility  on  the  outside  of  him ;  nay, 
worse  than  so,  since  in  the  thoughts  and  opinions  of  the 
world.  All  the  audacity  and  bravery  and  self-exultation 
which  drew  on  him  so  much  ridicule  were  an  agony  in 
disguise — he  could  not  live  without  reputation,  and  he 
wrestled  for  it,  struggled  for  it,  kicked  for  it,  forgetting 
grace  of  attitude  in  the  pang.     When  all  was  vain,  he  went 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  271 

mad  and  died.  Poor  Haydon !  He  measures  things  dif- 
ferently now !  and  let  ns  now  be  right  and  just  in  our  ad- 
measurement of  what  he  was — for,  with  all  his  weaknesses, 
he  was  not  certainly  far  from  being  a  great  man. 

It  is  hope  and  help,  to  be  able  to  look  away  from  all 
such  thoughts,  to  you,  dearest  beloved,  who  do  not  partake 
of  the  faults  and  feeblenesses  of  these  lower  geniuses. 
There  is  hope  and  help  for  the  world  in  you — and  if  for 
the  world,  why  for  me  indeed  much  more.  You  do  not 
know  .  .  ah,  you  do  not  know — how  I  look  up  to  you  and 
trust  perfectly  in  you.  You  are  above  all  these  clouds — 
your  element  is  otherwise— men  are  not  your  taskmasters 
that  you  should  turn  to  them  for  recompense.  '  Shall  I 
always  think  the  same  of  you, '  you  asked  yesterday.  But 
I  never  think  the  same  of  you ;  because  day  by  day  you 
look  greater  and  feel  dearer.  Only  there  is  a  deep  gulph 
of  another  question,  close  beside  that,  which  suggests 
itself,  and  makes  me  shudder  to  look  down. 

And  now,  the  rain  is  over,  and  I  shall  dine  briefly,  and 
go  out  in  the  carriage. 

May  God  bless  you  .  .  tres  bon ! — tres  cher,  pour  cause. 

Toute  a  toi — pour  toujours. 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  June  27,  1846.] 

Ever  dearest,  I  send  you  a  bare  line  to-night,  for  it  is 
late  and  I  am  very  tired ;  having  .  .  while  you  were  sitting 
by  the  fire  .  .  been,  for  my  part,  driving  to  Highgate  .  . 
now  think  of  that !  Also  it  has  done  me  good,  I  think,  and 
I  shall  sleep  for  it  to-night  perhaps,  though  I  am  tired 
certainly. 

Your  letter  shall  be  answered  to-morrow — and  here  is 
a  green  answer  to  your  leaves ! ' — what  leaves?  whence  and 

1  [A  sprig  from  rose-tree  enclosed.  R.  B. 's  previous  letter  con- 
tained some  leaves.] 


272   THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING    [June  27 

how?  My  green  little  branch,  I  gathered  myself  out  of  the 
hedge,  snatching  at  it  from  the  carriage- window.  The 
roses  were  gone,  or  nearly  gone,  and  the  few  left,  quite  out 
of  reach;  and  the  leaves  keep  behind  to  assure  you  that 
they  do  not  look  for  snow-storms  in  September.  No!  it 
was  not  that,  they  said.     I  am  belying  what  they  said. 

I  gathered  them  in  the  hedge  of  the  pretty  close  green 
lane  which  you  go  through  to  Hampstead.  Were  you  ever 
there,  I  wonder? 

Dearest,  I  will  write  to-morrow.  Never  are  you  '  impa- 
tient, '  inconsiderate — and  as  for  selfishness,  I  have  been 
uneasy  sometimes,  precisely  because  you  are  so  little  sel- 
fish. I  am  not  likely  to  mistake  .  .  to  wrench  the  wrong 
way  .  .  any  word  of  yours.  As  for  mine,  it  was  not  a 
mere  word,  when  I  said  that  you  should  decide  every- 
thing. Could  I  hold  out  for  November,  or  October,  or  for 
September  even,  if  you  choose  against?  Indeed  I  could 
not.  We — you  will  think — I  am  yours,  and  if  you  never 
repent  that,  /shall  not: — I  am  too  entirely  yours. 

And  so  good-night — dearest  beloved!  Because  you 
have  a  fire  in  June,  is  the  snow  to  fall  in  September,  and 
earth  and  ocean  to  become  impassable?  Ah  well !  we  shall 
see!    But  you  shall  not  see  that  I  deceive  you — 

I  am  your  very  own 

Ba. 

Dear  brown  leaves !  where  did  they  come  from,  besides 
from  you  ? 

Not  a  north  wind.  Only  a  north-west  wind1,  as  I  could 
have  proved  to  you  if  you  had  been  with  me !  Yet  it  is  a 
detestable  climate,  this  English  climate,  let  us  all  confess. 
Say  how  your  head  is. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARBETT  273 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  June  27,  1846.  J 

Your  dear  gentle  laugh,  as  I  seem  to  hear  it,  makes  all 
well  again  for  the  moment  undoubtedly.  I  cannot  help 
trusting  you  implicitly  .  .  so  whenever  I  seem  able  to 
reason  a  little,  and  set  you  reasoning  for  me,  ought  I  not 
to  try, — and  then  give  up,  and  sink  my  head  over  you  .  . 
dearest !  In  fact,  I  was  a  little  frightened  by  what  I  heard 
and  saw  .  .  for  you,  if  you  please,  began  by  saying  '  it 
was  too  cold  to  go  out ' — and  you  were  paler,  I  thought. 
The  news  of  Highgate  and  the  green  leaves  are  re-assuring 
indeed — but  my  brown  leaves  might  be  sent  to  you  by 
myriads  for  all  that,  for  all  the  light  laugh, — all  roses  fast 
going,  lilies  going  .  .  autumnal  hollyhocks  in  full  blow 
.  .  and  now  to  count  three  months  over  before  summer  is 
to  end !  These  rains  may  do  something,  or  hinder  some- 
what— and  certainly  our  fire  was  left  alone  early  yesterday 
morning.  Well,  I  have  not  been  presumptuous  except 
.  .  .  ah,  the  exception ! 

How  could  I  presume,  for  one  thing,  to  hope  for  last 
evening's  letter  .  .  a  pure  piece  of  kindness  in  you,  Ba! 
And  all  your  kindness  is  pure,  entire,  pearl-like  for  round- 
ness and  completeness  .  .  there  is  no  one  rough  side  as 
when  a  crystal  is  broken  off  and  given:  do  you  think  it  no 
good  augury  of  our  after  life  in  what  must  be  called,  I  sup- 
pose, another  relation, — that  this  has  been  so  perfect  .  .  to 
me  .  .  this  last  year,  let  me  only  say?  In  this  relation 
there  are  as  many  '  ecueils '  as  in  the  other,— as  many, 
though  of  a  different  nature, — lovers  quarrel  on  as  various 
grounds  as  the  wedded — and  though  with  the  hue  and  soft- 
ness of  love  the  most  energetic  words  and  deeds  may 
change  their  character;  yet  one  might  write  savage  sen- 
tences in  Chinese  celestial-blue  ink,  which  after  a  powder- 
ing with  gold-dust  should  look  prettier  than  the  truest 
Vol.  II.— 18 


274  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [June  2? 

blessing  in  ordinary  black.  But  you  have  been  perfect  to 
me  hitherto — perfect !  And  of  course  only  to  you  is  the 
praise  .  .  for  I  have  to  be  entirely  confided  in  by  you, 
seeing  that  you  cannot  keep  an  eye  on  me  after  I  leave  your 
room  .  .  whereas, — not  I,  but  a  gross,  stupid  fool  who  con- 
ceived of  no  liberty  but  that  of  the  body,  nor  that  the  soul 
may  be  far  more  unfaithful — such  an  one  might  exult 
in  the  notion  of  the  closed  door  and  the  excluded  world 
of  rivals. 

Bless  you,  darling — Monday  is  not  very  far  off  now! 
And  I  am  to  hear  again.  I  am  much  better, — my  mother 
much  better  too.  I  saw  my  French  friend  and  talked  and 
heard  him  talk.  Yesterday,  the  whole  day,  (after  the  fire 
went  out)  was  given  to  a  cousin  of  mine,  a  girl,  just  mar- 
ried, and  here  from  Paris  with  her  husband — these  two  had 
to  be  amused  somehow.     Ever  your  very  own —  K. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  June  27,  1846.] 

I  said  I  would  answer  your  letter  to-day,  my  beloved, 
but  how  shall  I  say  more  than  I  have  said  and  you  know? 
Do  you  not  know,  you  who  will  not  will  '  over '  me,  that  I 
cannot  will  against  you,  and  that  if  you  set  yourself  seri- 
ously to  take  September  for  October,  and  August  for  Sep- 
tember, it  is  all  at  an  end  with  me  and  the  calendar?  Still, 
seriously  .  .  there  is  time  for  deciding,  is  there  not?  .  .  . 
even  if  I  grant  to  you,  which  I  do  at  once,  that  the  road 
does  not  grow  smoother  for  us  by  prolonged  delays.  The 
single  advantage  perhaps  of  delay  is,  that  in  the  summer  I 
get  stronger  every  week  and  fitter  to  travel — and  then,  it 
never  was  thought  of  before  (that  I  have  heard)  to  precede 
September  so.  Last  year,  was  I  not  ordered  to  leave  Eng- 
land in  October,  and  'permitted  to  leave  it  in  November? 
Yet  I  agree,  November  and  perhaps  October  might  be  late 
— might  be  running  a  risk  through  lingering  .  .  in  our 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKRETT  275 

case ;  and  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  I  should  be  loth 
to  run  the  risk  of  being  forced  to  the  further  delay  of  a 
year — the  position  being  scarcely  tenable.  Now  for  Sep- 
tember, it  generally  passes  for  a  hot  month — it  ripens  the 
peaches— it  is  the  figtime  in  Italy.  Well — nobody  decides 
for  September  nevertheless.  The  end  of  August  is  nearer 
— and  at  any  rate  we  can  consider,  and  observe  the  signs 
of  the  heavens  and  earth  in  the  meanwhile — there  is  so 
much  to  think  of  first ;  and  the  end,  remember,  is  only  too 
frightfully  easy.  Also  you  shall  not  have  it  on  your  con- 
science to  have  killed  me,  let  ever  so  much  snow  fall  in 
September.  If  the  sea  should  be  frozen  over,  almost  we 
might  go  by  the  land — might  we  not?  and  apart  from  fab- 
ulous ports,  there  are  the  rivers — the  Seine,  the  Soane,  the 
Rhone — which  might  be  cheaper  than  the  sea  and  the 
steamers;  and  would,  I  almost  should  fancy.  These  are 
things  among  the  multitude,  to  think  of,  and  you  shall 
think  of  them,  dearest,  in  your  wisdom.  Oh — there  is 
time — full  time. 

No — there  is  not,  in  a  sense.  I  wanted  to  write  so 
much  more,  so  much — and  I  went  out  to  walk  first,  and,  on 
returning,  met  Mr.  Kenyon,  who  came  up-stairs  with  me. 

Now  it  is  too  late  to  add  a  word. 

May  God  bless  you.  I  shall  see  you  on  Monday.  I 
am  better  for  Highgate — I  walked  longer  to-day  than 
usual.  How  strong  you  make  me,  you  who  make  me 
happy ! 

I  am  your  own. 

R.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  June  29,  1846.] 

My  last  letter  will  have  answered  this  of  yours,  my 
dearest, — I  agree  in  all  you  say;  and  sooner  or  later  comes 
to  the  same  thing,  if  to  any  possible  increase  of  difficulty 
is  brought  a  proportionate  increase  of  strength  to  undergo 


276   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [June  29 

it — as  let  us  hope  will  be  the  case !  So  you  see  you  have 
to  '  understand  '  and  understand  me, — I  keep  your  faculty 
in  constant  exercise,  now  with  seeming  to  wish  for  post- 
ponement, and  now,  for  anticipation !  And  all  the  time  do 
I  really  '  grow  greater '  iu  your  eyes?  I  might  grow  less 
woefully, — '  for  reasons — for  reasons  ' — 

The  sea  will  not  be  frozen,  beside  .  .  which  makes  me 
think  to  tell  you  that  Carlyle  is  wanting  to  visit  only  one 
foreign  country — Iceland.  The  true  cradle  of  the  North- 
men and  their  virtues  .  .  all  that  is  worth  a  Northman's 
caring  to  see  is  there,  he  thinks,  and  nowise  in  Italy.  Per- 
haps !  Indeed,  so  I  reason  and  say — Did  I  not  once  turn 
on  myself  and  speak  against  the  Southern  spirit,  and  even 
Dante,  just  because  of  that  conviction?— (or  imperfect  con- 
viction, whence  the  uneasy  exaggeration).  Carlyle  thinks 
modern  Italy's  abasement  a  direct  judgment  from  God. 
'  Here  is  a  nation  in  whose  breast  arise  men  who  could 
doubt,  examine  the  new  problems  of  the  reformation  &c — 
trim  the  balance  at  intervals,  and  throw  overboard  the 
accumulation  of  falsehood — all  other  nations  around,  less 
favoured,  are  doing  it  laboriously  for  themselves  .  .  now  is 
the  time  for  the  acumen  of  the  Bembos,  the  Bentivoglios 
and  so  forth  .  .  and  these  and  their  like,  one  and  all,  turn 
round,  decline  the  trouble,  say  '  these  things  may  be  true, 
or  they  may  not,  meantime  let  us  go  on  verse-making,  paint- 
ing, music-scoring  ' — to  which  all  the  nation  accedes  as  if 
relieved  of  a  trouble — upon  which  God  bids  the  Germans 
go  in  and  possess  them;  pluck  their  fruits  and  feel  their 
sun  after  their  own  hard  work.'  Carlyle  said  the  sense  of 
this,  between  two  huge  pipe-whiffs,  the  other  afternoon. 

'  Pluck  their  fruits  ' — some  four  years  ago  I  planted 
or  held  straight  while  my  mother  planted,  a  fig-tree, — for 
love  of  Italy  !     This  year  it  bears  its  first  fruit  .  .  a  single 
one  !  what  does  that  bode? 

Since  I  wrote  the  last  paragraph,  the  wind  took  my 
thoughts  away,  as  it  always  does,  and  I  saw  you  again  as 
I  used  to  see,  before  I  knew  you,  so  very  substanceless, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  277 

faint,  unreal — when  I  was  struck  by  the  reality  again, — by 
this  paper, — by  to-morrow's  visit  I  shall  pay  .  .  it  was  as 
if  someone  had  said  '  but  that  star  is  your  own. ' 

I  fancied  you  just  what  I  find  you — I  knew  you  from 
the  beginning. 

Let  me  kiss  you  dearest  dearest — ■ 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  June  30,  1846.] 

The  gods  and  men  call  you  by  your  name,  but  I  never 
do — never  dare.  In  case  of  invocation,  tell  me  how  you 
should  be  called  by  such  as  I?  not  to  be  always  the  '  inex- 
pressive He  '  which  I  make  of  you.  In  case  of  courage  for 
invocation ! — 

Dearest  .  .  (which  is  a  name  too)  read  on  the  paper 
inside  what  I  have  been  studying  about  Salerno  since  we 
parted  yesterday.  Forsyth  is  too  severe  in  his  deductions, 
perhaps,  from  the  apothecaries,  but  your  Naples  book  will 
not  help  me  to  contradict  him,  saying  neither  the  one  thing 
nor  the  other.  The  word  we  could  not  read  in  the  letter 
yesterday,  was  La  Cava— and  La  Cava  is  a  town  on  the 
way  between  Naples  and  Salerno,  which  Mrs.  Stark  de- 
scribes as  '  a  large  town  with  porticoes  on  each  side  of  the 
High  Street,  like  those  at  Bologna. '  To  which  the  letter 
adds,  remember,  '  enchantingly  beautiful,  very  good  air  and 
no  English.'  Then  there  is  Vietri,  mentioned  by  Forsyth, 
between  La  Cava  and  Salerno,  and  on  the  bay.  It  is  as 
well  to  think  of  all  three.  Were  you  ever  at  either? 
Amain  itself  appears  to  be  very  habitable.  Oh — and  your 
Naples  book  says  of  Salerno,  that  it  is  illuminated  by  fire- 
flies, and  that  the  chanting  of  frogs  cover  the  noises  of  the 
city.  You  will  like  the  frogs,  if  you  don't  the  apothe- 
caries, and  I  shall  like  the  fireflies  if  I  don't  the  frogs — but 
I  do  like  frogs,  you  know,  and  it  was  quite  a  mistake  of 
yours  when  you  once  thought  otherwise. 


278  THE  LETTEKS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [June  30 

Now  I  am  going  out  in  the  carriage,  to  call  on  Mr. 
Kenyon,  and  perhaps  to  see  Mr.  Boyd.  Your  flowers  are 
more  beautiful  than  they  were  yesterday,  if  possible :  and 
the  fresh  coolness  helps  them  to  live,  so,  that  I  hope  you 
may  see  some  of  them  on  Saturday  when  you  come.  On 
Saturday !  What  a  time  to  wait !  if  not  for  them,  yet  for 
me.  Of  the  two,  it  is  easier  for  them,  certainly.  They 
only  miss  a  little  dew  and  air. 

I  shall  write  again  to-night, — but  I  cannot  be  more  then 
than  now,  nor  less  ever  than  now 

Your  own 

Ba. 

Here  is  a  coincidence.  Hardly  had  you  left  me,  when, 
passing  near  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  room,  I  saw  a 
parcel  there.  Remember  your  question  about  the  '  Year 
of  the  World. '  Precisely  that !  With  a  note,  the  counter- 
part of  yours — desiring  an  opinion ! 

May  God  bless  you,  dear,  dear ! —  Did  I  ever  think 
I  should  live  to  thank  God  that  I  did  not  die  five  years 
ago? — Not  that  I  quite,  quite  dare  to  do  it  yet.  I  must  be 
sure  first  of  something. 

Which  is  not  your  love,  my  beloved — it  is  a  something 
still  dearer  and  of  more  consequence. 


Salerno. 

'Though  placed  between  the  beauties  of  sea  and  land, 
of  cultivated  and  rude  nature,  the  city  is  so  unhealthy  that 
its  richer  inhabitants  remove  to  Yietri  during  the  hot 
months.  In  proof  of  its  bad  air,  I  remark  here  a  number 
of  apothecaries ! '  Forsyth. 

'  Its  white  houses  curving  round  the  haven  at  the  water's 
brink,  the  mountains  crowding  close  behind  the  city,  the 
ruins  of  its  Gothic  castle  on  the  olive-covered  hill  above, 
together  mirrored  on  the  waveless  water,  itself  alternate 
shine  and  shadow — 'tis  a  noble  sight. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEEETT  279 

'  The  view  from  Salerno  is  one  of  the  loveliest  pictures 
in  Italy.  A  clear-complexioned,  open-eyed,  and  bright- 
faced  city  is  modern  Salerno, — and  its  streets  and  piazza 
were  all  astir. '  Letters  front  Naples. 

'  This  town,  the  approach  to  which  is  enchanting,  boasts 
a  tolerably  good  inn  I ! '  Mes.  Starke. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  June  30,  1846.] 

I  have  looked  in  the  map  for  '  L , '  the  place  praised 

in  the  letter,  and  conclude  it  must  be  either  Ceva,  (La 
Ceva,  between  Nocera  and  Salerno,  about  four  miles  from 
the  latter,  and  on  the  mountain-side,  I  suppose  .  .  see 
a  map,  my  Ba !) — or  else  Lucera,  (which  looks  very  like 
the  word  .  .  and  which  lies  at  about  sixty  miles  to  the 
N.E.  of  Naples,  in  a  straight  line  over  the  mountains 
and  roadless  country,  but  perhaps  twice  as  far  by  the 
main  way  through  Avellino,  Ariano,  Bovino,  and  Savia — 
(exactly  120  Italian  miles  now  that  I  count  the  posts). 
So  that  there  would  be  somewhat  of  a  formidable  journey 
to  undertake  after  the  sea  voyage.  I  daresay  at  Ceva 
there  is  abundance  of  quietness,  as  the  few  who  visit 
Salerno  do  not  go  four  miles  inland, — can  you  enquire 
into  this? 

How  inexpressibly  charming  it  is  to  me  to  have  a  pre- 
text for  writing  thus  .  .  about  such  approaches  to  the  real 
event — those  business-like  words,  and  names  of  places! 
If  at  the  end  you  should  bring  yourself  to  say  '  But  you 
never  seriously  believed  this  would  take  place ' — what 
should  I  answer,  I  wonder? 

Lt  t  me  think  on  what  is  real,  indisputable,  however  .  . 
the  improvement  in  the  health  as  I  read  it  on  the  dear, 
dear  cheeks  yesterday.  This  morning  is  favourable  again 
.  .  you  will  go  out,  will  you  not? 

Mr.  Kenyon  sends  me  one  of  his  kindest  letters  to  ask 


280   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [June  30 

me  to  dine  with  him  next  week — on  Wednesday.  I  feel  his 
kindness,  just  as  you  feel  in  the  other  case,  and  in  its  lesser 
degree,  I  feel  it, — and  then  I  know, — dare  think  I  know 
whether  he  will  be  so  sorry  in  the  end, — loving  you  as  he 
does.  I  will  send  his  letter  that  you  may  understand  here 
as  elsewhere. 

I  think  my  head  is  dizzy  with  reading  the  debates  this 
morning — Peel's  speech  and  farewell.  How  exquisitely 
absurd,  it  just  strikes  me,  would  be  any  measure  after  Miss 
Martineau's  own  heart,  which  should  introduce  women  to 
Parliament  as  we  understand  its  functions  at  present — how 
essentially  retrograde  a  measure!  Parliament  seems  no 
place  for  originating,  creative  minds — but  for  second-rate 
minds  influenced  by  and  bent  on  working  out  the  results 
of  these — and  the  most  efficient  qualities  for  such  a  pur- 
pose are  confessedly  found  oftener  with  men  than  with 
women — physical  power  having  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it 
beside.  So  why  shuffle  the  heaps  together  which,  however 
arbitrarily  divided  at  first,  happen  luckily  to  lie  pretty 
much  as  one  would  desire, — here  the  great  flint  stones, 
here  the  pebbles — and  diamonds  too.  The  men  of  genius 
knew  all  this,  said  more  than  all  this,  in  their  way  and 
proper  place  on  the  outside,  where  Miss  M.  is  still  saying 
something  of  the  kind — to  be  taken  up  in  its  time  by  some 
other  Mr.  Cobden  and  talked  about,  and  beleaguered.  But 
such  people  cannot  or  will  not  see  where  their  office  begins 
and  advantageously  ends ;  and  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
influencing  the  influencers,  playing  the  Bentham  to  the 
Cobden,  the  Barry  to  a  Commission  for  Public  Wrorks,  the 
Lough  to  the  three  or  four  industrious  men  with  square 
paper  caps  who  get  rules  ancf  plummets  and  dot  the  blocks 
of  marble  all  over  as  his  drawings  indicate.     So  you  and 

I  will  go  to  Salerno  or  L ■  (not  to  the  L — akes,  Heaven 

forefend !)  and  if  we  '  let  sail  winged  words,  freighted  with 
truth  from  the  throne  of  God ' — we  may  be  sure 

Ah,  presumption  all  of  it!  Then,  you  shall  fill  the 
words  with  their  freight,  and  I  will  look  on  and  love  you, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABKETT  281 

— is  that  too  much?     Yes — for  any  other — No — for  one  you 
[know]  is  yours — 

Your  very  own. 

For  the  quick  departing  yesterday  our  day  was  not 
spoken  of  .  .  it  is  Saturday,  is  it  not? 


K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post -mark,  July  1,  1846.] 

Thank  you  for  letting  me  see  dear  Mr.  Kenyon's  letter. 
He  loves  you,  admires  you,  trusts  you.  When  what  is 
done  cannot  be  undone,  then  he  will  forgive  you  besides — 
that  is,  he  will  forgive  both  of  us,  and  set  himself  to  see  all 
manner  of  good  where  now  he  would  see  evil  if  we  asked 
him  to  look.  So  we  will  not,  if  you  please,  ask  him  to 
look  on  the  encouragement  of  ever  so  many  more  kind 
notes,  pleasant  as  they  are  to  read,  and  worthy  to  trust  to, 
under  certain  conditions.  Dear  Mr.  Kenyon — but  how 
good  he  is !  And  I  love  him  more  (shall  it  be  under-love  ?) 
because  of  his  right  perception  and  understanding  of  you — 
no  one  among  men  sets  you  higher  than  he  does  as  a  man 
and  as  a  poet — even  if  he  misses  the  subtle  sense,  some- 
times. 

So  you  dine  with  him — don't  you?  And  I  shall  have 
you  on  Wednesday  instead  of  Thursday!  yes,  certainly. 
And  on  Saturday,  of  course,  next  time. 

In  the  carriage,  to-day,  I  went  first  to  Mr.  Kenyon's, 
and  as  he  was  not  at  home,  left  a  card  for  a  footstep. 
Then  Arabel  and  Flush  and  I  proceeded  on  our  way  to  Mr. 
Boyd's  in  St.  John's  Wood,  and  I  was  so  nervous  .  .  so 
anxious  for  an  excuse  for  turning  back  .  .  that  .  .  can 
you  guess  what  Arabel  said  to  me?  '  Oh  Ba ' ;  she  said, 
'  such  a  coward  as  you  are,  never  will  be  .  .  married, 
while  the  world  lasts. '  Which  made  me  laugh  if  it  did  not 
make  me  persevere — for  you  see  by  it  what  her  notion  is 


282   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [JulyI 

of  an  heroic  deed !  So,  there,  I  stood  at  last,  at  the  door 
of  poor  Mr.  Boyd's  dark  little  room,  and  saw  him  sitting 
.  .  as  if  he  had  not  moved  these  seven  years — these  seven 
heavy,  changeful  years.  Seeing  him,  my  heart  was  too 
full  to  speak  at  first,  but  I  stooped  and  kissed  his  poor 
bent-down  forehead,  which  he  never  lifts  up,  his  chin  being 
quite  buried  in  his  breast.  Presently  we  began  to  talk  of 
Ossian  and  Cyprus  wine,  and  I  was  forced,  as  I  would  not 
have  Ossian  for  a  god,  to  take  a  little  of  the  Cyprus,  — there 
was  no  help  for  me,  nor  alternative :  so  I  took  as  little  as  I 
could,  while  he  went  on  proving  to  me  that  the  Adamic  fall 
and  corruption  of  human  nature  (Mr.  Boyd  is  a  great  the- 
ologian) were  never  in  any  single  instance  so  disgustingly 
exemplified  as  in  the  literary  controversy  about  Ossian; 
every  man  of  the  Highland  Society  having  a  lost  soul  in 
him ;  and  Walter  Scott  .  .  .  oh,  the  woman  who  poisoned 
all  her  children  the  other  day,  is  a  saint  to  Walter  Scott, 
.  .  so  we  need  not  talk  of  him  any  more.  '  Arabel ! — how 
much  has  she  taken  of  that  wine?  not  half  a  glass. '  '  But, 
Mr.  Boyd,  you  would  not  have  me  obliged  to  carry  her 
home.' 

That  visit  being  over,  we  went  into  the  Park,  Hyde 
Park,  and  drove  close  to  the  Serpentine,  and  then  returned. 
Flush  would  not  keep  his  head  out  of  the  window  (his 
favourite  pleasure)  all  the  way,  because  several  drops  of 
rain  trickled  down  his  ears.  Flush  has  no  idea  of  wetting 
his  ears : — his  nose  so  near,  too ! 

Eight  you  are,  I  think,  in  opposition  to  Miss  Marti- 
neau,  though  your  reasons  are  too  gracious  to  be  right 
.  .  except  indeed  as  to  the  physical  inaptitude,  which  is 
an  obvious  truth.  Another  truth  (to  my  mind)  is,  that 
women,  as  they  are  (whatever  they  may  be)  have  not  men- 
tal strength  any  more  than  they  have  bodily ;  have  not  in- 
struction, capacity,  wholeness  of  intellect  enough.  To 
deny  that  women,  as  a  class,  have  defects,  is  as  false  I 
think,  as  to  deny  that  women  have  wrongs. 

Then  you  are  right  again  in  affirming  that  the  creators 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  283 

have  no  business  there,  with  the  practical  men — you  should 
not  be  there  for  instance.  And  /  (if  I  am  to  be  thought  of) 
would  be  prouder  to  eat  cresses  and  maccaroni  (Dearest — 
there  is  a  manufactory  of  maccaroni  and  writing-paper  at 
Amalfi  close  by — observe  that  combination !  maccaroni  and 
writing-paper !)  I  would  be  prouder  to  eat  cresses  and  mac- 
caroni with  you  as  you,  than  to  sit  with  diamonds  in  my 
ears,  under  the  shelter  of  the  woolsack,  you  being  a  law- 
lord  and  parliamentary  maker  of  speeches !  By  the  way, 
I  couldn't  have  diamonds  in  my  ears :  they  never  were  bored 
for  it  .  .  as  I  never  was  horn  for  it.  A  physical  inapti- 
tude, here  too ! 

Shall  I  say  what  you  tell  me  .  .  '  You  never  seriously 
believed '  .  .  .  shall  I?  I  will,  if  you  like.  But  it  is  not 
Ceva,  if  you  like — it  is  Cava  .  .  La  Cava  .  .  in  my  map, 
and  according  to  my  authorities.  Otherwise,  the  place  is 
the  same — four  miles  from  Salerno,  I  think,  and  '  enchant- 
ingly  beautiful.'  It  is  worth  an  enquiry  certainly,  this 
enchanting  place  which  has  no  English  in  it,  with  porticoes 
like  Bologna,  and  too  little  known  to  be  spelt  correctly  by 
the  most  accomplished  geographers. 

Ah — your  head  is  '  dizzy, '  my  beloved !  Tell  me  how  it 
is  now.  And  tell  me  how  your  mother  is.  I  think  of  you 
— love  you.  I,  who  am  discontented  with  myself,  .  .  self- 
condemned  as  unworthy  of  you,  in  all  else  .  .  am  yet  sat- 
isfied with  the  love  I  have  for  you — it  seems  worthy  of 
you,  as  far  as  an  abstract  affection  can  go,  without  taking 
note  of  the  personality  loving. 

Do  you  see  the  meaning  through  the  mist?  Do  you 
accept 

Your  very  own 

Ba? 


284  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  1 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  July  1,  1846.] 

Dearest — dearest,  you  did  once,  one  time  only,  call  me 
by  my  name — Robert;  and  though  it  was  to  bid  '  K.  not 
talk  extravagances '  (your  very  words)  still  the  name  so 
spoken  became  what  it  never  had  been  before  to  me.  I 
never  am  called  by  any  pet-name,  nor  abbreviation,  here  at 
home  or  elsewhere  .  .  Oh,  best  let  it  alone  .  .  it  is  one  of 
my  incommunicable  advantages  to  have  a  Ba  of  my  own, 
and  call  her  so— indeed,  yes,  my  Ba !  I  write  '  dearest, ' 
and  '  most  dearest, '  but  it  all  ends  in — c  Ba, '  and  the  '  my  ' 
is  its  framework, — its  surrounding  arm — Ba — my  own  Ba! 
'  Kobert'  is  in  Saxon,  [ni  f allot),  '  famous  in  counsel,'  so 
let  him  give  a  proof  of  his  quality  in  counselling  you  to 
hold  your  good,  happy  inspiration  about  La  Cava  (my 
French  map-maker  must  have  had  Ceva  in  Piedmont  in  his 
head)  for  at  such  a  place,  so  situate,  we  renounce  not  one 
sight  at  Salerrio,  nor  Amain,  nor  Sorrento  .  .  four  miles 
.  .  the  distance  between  your  house  and  Highgate,  per- 
haps !  Cava, — the  hollow  of  a  hill ;  and  such  hills  and  such 
hollows  are  in  that  land !  Oh,  let  it  be  La  Cava — or  Seven 
Dials,  with  you  ! 

I  passed  through  Seven  Dials  this  morning — and  after- 
ward, by  your  house, — with  a  heart  full  of  thoughts, — not 
fuller  than  usual,  but  they  were  more  stirring  and  alive, 
near  their  source.  I  called  at  Mrs.  Procter's  door  (pro- 
ceeding from  Forster's)  and  then  on  Mrs.  Jameson  whom 
I  found  and  talked  with  pleasantly  till  a  visitor  came.  I 
do  extremely  appreciate  her,  delight  in  her  .  .  to  avoid 
saying  '  love ' — I  was  never  just  to  her  before,  far  from  it. 
I  saw  her  niece,  a  quiet  earnest-looking  little  girl.  But 
did  it  not  please  me  to  call  in  at  Moxon's  and  hear  that 
(amongst  other  literary  news  dexterously  enquired  after) 
Miss  Barrett's  poems  were  selling  very  well  and  would  ere 


18461  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  285 

long  be  out  of  print?  And,  after  that  pleasure,  came  the 
other  of  finding  dear,  generous  n^ble  Carlyle  had  sent  his 
new  edition  of  '  Cromwell, '  three  groat  volumes,  with  his 
brave  energetic  assurance  of  '  regards '  and  '  many  '  of 
them,  in  blaok  manly  writing  on  the  first  page.  So  may 
he  continue  to  like  me  till  he  knows  you;  when  it  will  be 
'  mine  '  instead  of  me,  that  he  smJl  love — '  love  '  ?  I  let  the 
whole  world  love  you — if  they  can  overtake  my  love.  As 
I  read  on,  about  the  visit  to  Mr.  Boyd,  I  thought,  '  I  trust 
she  will  kiss  his  forehead,' — and  I  kiss  yours — thus — for 
that,  too — is  gratitude  for  that.  You  dear,  good,  blessing 
of  a  Ba,  how  I  kiss  you ! —  R.  B. 

I  am  quite  well  to-day,  and  my  mother  is  quite  well — ■ 
The  good  account  of  the  visit  is  enough  to  make  me  happy 
on  a  Wednesday — leading  to  a  Saturday  !  Then  my  two 
letters ! 

I  did  not  see  Moxon — only  the  brother — who  tells  odd 
stories  drily ;  one  made  me  laugh  to-day.  Poor  Mr. 
Reade,  Landor's  love,  sent  a  book  to  Campbell  the  Poet, 
and  then  called  on  him  ...  to  discover  him  in  the  very 
act  of  wiping  a  razor  on  a  leaf  torn  out  of  the  book,  laid 
commodiously  by  his  toilet-table  for  the  express  purpose. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  July  2,  1846.] 

No,  No!  indeed  I  never  did.  If  you  heard  me  say 
■  Robert, '  it  was  on  a  stair-landing  in  the  House  of  Dreams 
— never  anywhere  else !  Why  how  could  you  fancy  such  a 
thing?  Wasn't  it  rather  your  own  disquieted  Conscience 
which  spoke  instead  of  me,  saying  '  Robert,  don't  be  ex- 
travagant. '  Yes — just  the  speech  that  is,  for  a  '  good  un- 
easy,'  discerning  Conscience — and  you  took  it  for  my 
speech !  '  Don't  be  extravagant '  I  may  certainly  have 
said.  Both  I  and  the  Conscience  might  have  said  so  ob- 
vious a  thing. 


286   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWHLNG     [July  % 

Ah — and  now  I  have  got  the  name,  shall  I  have  courage 
to  say  it?  tell  me,  best  councillor !  I  like  it  better  than 
any  other  name,  though  I  ncvor  spoke  it  with  my  own  lips 
— I  never  called  any  one  by  such  a  name  .  .  except  once 
when  I  was  in  the  lane  with  Bertha.  One  uncle  I  have, 
called  Robert — but  to  me  he  is  an  '  uncle  Hedley  '  and  no 
more.  So  it  is  a  white  name  to  take  into  life.  Isn't  this 
an  Hebraic  expression  of  a  preferring  affection  .  .  '  I  have 
called  thee  by  thy  name.  '  ?  And  therefore,  because  you  are 
the  best,  only  dearest ! Robert. 

You  passed  by  and  I  never  knew !  How  foolish — but 
really  it  quite  strikes  me  as  something  wonderful,  that  I 
should  not  have  known.  I  knew  however  of  your  being  in 
London,  because  .  .  .  (don't  expect  supernatural  evidence) 
Mrs.  Jameson  told  me.  She  was  here  with  me  about  five, 
and  brought  her  niece  whom  I  liked  just  for  the  reasons 
you  give ;  and  herself  was  feeling  and  affectionate  as  ever : 
— it  is  well  that  you  should  give  me  leave  to  love  her  a 
little.  Once  she  touched  upon  Italy  .  .  and  I  admitted 
that  I  thought  of  it,  and  thought  it  probable  as  an  event 
.  .  on  which  she  pressed  gently  to  know  '  on  what  I 
counted. '  '  Perhaps  on  my  own  courage, '  I  said.  '  Oh, ' 
she  exclaimed  '  now  I  see  clearly.' 

Which  made  me  smile  .  .  the  idea  of  her  seeing 
clearly,  but  earnestly  and  cordially  she  desired  me  to  re- 
member that  to  be  useful  to  me  in  any  manner,  would  give 
her  pleasure.  Such  kindness !  The  sense  of  it  has  sunk 
into  my  heart.  You  cannot  praise  her  too  much  for  me. 
She  was  so  kind,  and  when  she  asked  me  to  go  to  see  her 
in  Mortimer  Street  on  Friday,  I  could  not  help  agreeing  at 
once:  and  I  am  to  have  the  sofa  and  no  company — that's 
a  promise.  She  asked  me  to  go  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  to 
bring  Mr.  Kenyon  for  an  escort — but  I  would  not  answer 
for  Mr.  Kenyon' s  going,  only  half  promising  for  myself. 
Now  I  must  try  to  fix  a  later  hour,  because  .   . 

Listen  to  the  because.  My  aunt,  Miss  Clarke,  and  my 
cousin,  her  adopted  daughter  and  niece,  come  to-morrow 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  287 

evening,  and  stay  in  this  house  .  .  oh,  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  long:  for  a  whole  week  as  a  beginning,  certainly.  I 
have  been  sighing  and  moaning  so  about  it  that  Arabel 
calls  it  quite  a  scandal — but  when  one  can't  be  glad,  why 
should  it  be  so  undutiful  to  appear  sad?  If  she  had  but 
stayed  in  Paris  six  months  longer !  Well ! — and  to-morrow 
morning  Miss  Mitford  comes  to  spend  the  day  like  the 
kind  dear  friend  she  is ;  and  I,  not  the  least  in  the  world 
glad  to  see  her !  Why  have  you  turned  my  heart  into  such 
hard  porphyry?  Once,  when  it  was  plain  clay,  every 
finger  (of  these  womanly  fingers)  left  a  mark  on  it — -and 
now,  .  .  you  see !  Even  Mrs.  Jameson  makes  me  grateful 
to  her  chiefly  (as  I  know  in  myself)  because  she  sees  you 
as  you  are  in  part,  and  will  forgive  me  for  loving  you  as 
soon  as  she  hears  of  it  .  .  however  she  may,  and  must 
consistently,  expect  us  to  torment  one  another,  according 
to  the  way  of  the  '  artistic  temperament, '  evermore,  and 
ever  more  and  more.  But  for  the  rest,  the  others  who  do 
not  know  you  and  value  you  .  .  /  hate  to  see  them  .  .  and 
there's  the  truth !  There  is  something  too  in  the  conceal- 
ment, the  reserve,  the  doubleness  enforced  on  occasion !  . 
which  is  painful  and  hateful.     Detestable  it  all  is. 

And  /  like  La  Cava  too !  Think  of  a  hollow  in  the 
mountain  .  .  something  like  a  cave,  do  you  think?  At 
least  it  must  be  a  hollow  in  the  mountains.  I  wrote  to  my 
friend  this  morning  to  ask  if  the  place  is  considered  warm, 
and  if  she  knew  any  more  of  it.  The  '  porticoes  as  at  Bo- 
logna '  look  attractive  too  by  the  dreamlight  we  look  at  them 
by ;  and  Baba  may  escape  the  forty  thieves  of  English  in 
the  Cave,  with  a  good  watchword  like  Sesame — now  that's 
half  my  nonsense  and  half  yours,  I  beg  you  to  observe.  I 
won't  be  at  the  charge  of  it  all. 

I  was  out  to-day — walked  up,  walked  down,  in  my  old 
fashion — only  I  do  improve  in  walking,  I  think,  and  gain 
strength. 

May  God  bless  you  dear  dearest !     I  am  your  own. 


288   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  2 


B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  July  2,  1846.] 

Dear,  you  might  as  well  imagine  you  had  never  given 
me  any  other  of  the  gifts,  as  that  you  did  not  call  me,  as  I 
tell  you.  You  spoke  quickly,  interrupting  me,  and,  for 
the  name,  '  I  can  hear  it,  'twixt  my  spirit  and  the  earth- 
noise  intervene ' ;  do  you  think  I  forget  one  gift  in  an- 
other, even  a  greater?  I  should  still  taste  the  first  fresh- 
ness of  the  vinegar,  (or  whatever  was  the  charm  of  it) — 
though  Cleopatra  had  gone  on  dissolving  pearl  after  pearl 
in  it.  I  love  you  for  these  gifts  to  me  now — hereafter,  it 
seems  almost  as  if  I  must  love  you  even  better,  should  you 
choose  to  continue  them  to  me  in  spite  of  complete  knowl- 
edge :  I  feel  this  as  often  as  I  think  of  it,  which  is  not  sel- 
dom. 

Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Jameson  asked  me  to  go  and  see 
her  on  Friday  morning — would  you  like  me  to  go?  What 
I  like  .  .  do  not  fancy, — because  your  own  pleasure  is  to 
be  consulted.  Should  you  fear  the  eyes,  which  can,  on 
occasion,  wear  spectacles?  If  not  .  .  and  if  our  Saturday 
will  not  be  interfered  with  .  .  and  if  you  can  tell  me  the 
hour  *  later  than  twelve '  you  mean  to  appoint,  .  .  so  that 
my  call  may  be  neither  too  early  nor  too  late  .  .  why, 
then,  Ba,  dearest,  dearest — 

La  Cava— is  surely  our  cave,  Ba — early  in  October  will 
be  vintage-time, — no  fire  flies.  There  will  be  the  advan- 
tage in  the  vicinity  of  Naples,  that  through  the  Roths- 
childs' House  there  we  can,  I  believe,  receive  and  dispatch 
letters  without  any  charge,  which  otherwise  would  be  an 
expensive  business  in  Italy.  The  economy  of  the  Post 
Office  there  is  astounding.  A  stranger  goes  to  a  window 
and  asks  for  '  A's  '  or  '  Z's  '  letters  .  .  not  even  professing 
himself  to  be  'A,'  or  'Z' — whereupon  the  official  hands 
over  sundry  dozens  of  letters,  without  a  word  of  enquiry, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAREETT  289 

out  of  which  the  said  stranger  picks  what  pleases  him,  and 
paying  for  his  selections,  goes  away  and  there  an  end.  At 
Venice,  I  remember,  they  offered  me,  with  other  letters, 
about  ten  or  fifteen  for  the  Marquis  of  Hastings  who  was 
not  arrived  yet — I  had  only  to  say  '  I  am  sent  for  them  '  .  . 
At  Rome  a  lady  lamented  to  me  the  sad  state  of  things 
'  A  letter  might  contain  Heaven  only  knew  what  and  lie  at 
the  office  and' — '/might  go  and  get  it,'  I  said— '  You? 
Nay,  my  husband  might!'  she  answered  as  one  mightily 
wronged. 

But  of  your  dear  self  now — the  going  out  will  soon  and 
effectually  cure  the  nervousness,  we  may  be  sure.  I  am 
most  happy,  love,  to  hear  of  the  walking  and  increased 
strength.  So  you  used  to  like  riding  on  a  donkey?  Then 
you  shall  have  a  mule,  un  bel  mulo,  and  I  will  be  your 
muleteer,  walk  by  your  side — and  you  will  think  the  mo- 
ment you  see  him  of  the  wicked  shoeing  of  cats  with  wal- 
nut-shells, for  they  make  a  mule's  shoes  turn  up,  for  all 
the  world  like  large  shells — those  on  his  forefeet  at  least. 
Will  the  time  really  come  then?  Meanwhile,  your  vis- 
itors .  .  let  us  hope  they  will  go  sight-seeing  or  call- 
making,  do  anything  but  keep  the  house  on  our  days  .  . 
The  three  hours  seem  as  a  minute  .  .  if  they  are  to  be 
curtailed, — oh,  no,  no,  I  hope.  Tell  me  all  you  can,  dear- 
est .  .  and  let  me  tell  you  all  I  can,  little  as  it  is,  in  kiss- 
ing you,  my  best  and  dearest  Ba,  as  now  kisses  your  very 
own. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  3,  1846.] 

But,  ever  dearest,  I  do  so  fear  that  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  get  to  Mrs.  Jameson's  to-morrow  at  all !  not  at  twelve,  I 
fear,  I  fear.  Our  visitors  are  to  arrive  late  to-night,  too 
late  for  me  to  see  them :  and  for  me,  to  go  away  at  twelve 
in  the  morning,  just  about  the  hour  when  they  might  rea- 
sonably expect  to  have  and  to  hold  me,  .  .  seems  alto- 
Vol.  II.— 19 


290   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  3 

gether  unlawful,  according  to  my  sisters.  Yet  the  tempta- 
tion is  strong.  Would  half-past  twelve  be  too  early  for 
you,  if  I  could  manage  to  go  at  twelve?  Ah — but  I  shall 
not  be  able,  I  do  fear.  Just  see  how  it  becomes  possible 
and  impossible  at  once  for  us  to  touch  hands !  I  could  al- 
most wring  mine,  to  see !  For  I  could  dare  the  spectacles, 
the  hypothetical  spectacles,  and  the  eyes  discerning  without 
them :  she  has  no  idea  to  begin  with — and  you  would  not 
say  '  Ba,  let  us  order  the  mules, '  I  suppose.  If  I  went,  it 
would  be  alone — but  probably  I  shall  not  be  able — so  you 
had  better  not  think  of  me,  and  pay  your  visit  at  your  own 
hour  '  after  the  devices  of  your  heart.' 

In  the  meanwhile,  quite  you  make  me  laugh  by  your 
positiveness  about  the  name-calling.  Well — if  ever  I  did 
such  a  thing,  it  was  in  a  moment  of  unconsciousness  all  the 
more  surprising,  that,  even  to  my  own  soul,  in  the  lowest 
spirit-whisper,  I  have  not  been  in  the  habit  of  saying  '  Rob- 
ert,' speaking  of  you.  You  have  only  been  The  One.  No 
word  ever  stood  for  you.  The  Idea  admitted  of  no  repre- 
sentative— the  words  fell  down  before  it  and  were  silent. 
Still  such  very  positive  people  must  be  right  of  course — 
they  always  are.  At  any  rate  it  is  only  one  illusion  more 
— and  some  day  I  expect  to  hear  you  say  and  swear  that 
you  saw  me  fly  out  of  one  window  and  fly  in  at  another. 
So  much  for  your  Cleopatra's  Roman  pearls,  oh  my  famous 
in  council ! — and  appreciation  of  sour  vinegar ! 

Dear  Miss  Mitford  came  at  two  to-day  and  stayed  until 
seven,  and  all  those  hours  you  were  not  once  mentioned — 1 
had  not  courage — and  she  perhaps  avoided  an  old  subject 
of  controvers}'  .  .  I  do  not  know.  It  is  singular  that  for 
this  year  past  you  are  not  mentioned  between  us,  while 
other  names  come  up  like  grass  in  the  rain.  No  single  per- 
son will  be  more  utterly  confounded  than  she,  when  she 
comes  to  be  aware  of  what  you  are  to  me  now — and  that  I 
was  thinking  to-day,  while  she  talked  to  never  a  listener. 
She  will  be  confounded,  and  angry  perhaps — it  will  be  be- 
yond her  sympathies — or  if  they  reach  so  far,  the  effort  to 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  291 

make  them  do  so  will  prove  a  more  lively  affection  for  me, 
than,  with  all  my  trust  in  her  goodness,  I  dare  count  on. 
Yet  very  good  and  kind  and  tender,  she  was  to  me  to-day. 
And  very  variously  intelligent  and  agreeable.  Do  you 
know,  I  should  say  that  her  natural  faculties  were  stronger 
than  Mrs.  Jameson's — though  the  latter  has  a  higher  aspi- 
ration and,  in  some  ways,  a  finer  sensibility  of  intellect. 
You  would  certainly  call  her  superior  to  her  own  books — 
certainly  you  would.  She  walks  strongly  on  her  two  feet  in 
this  world — but  nobody  shall  see  her  (not  even  you)  fly  out 
of  a  window.  Too  closely  she  keeps  to  the  ground,  I 
always  feel.  Now  Mrs.  Jameson  can  '  aspire '  like  Para- 
celsus ;  and  believes  enough  in  her  own  soul,  to  know  a 
poet  when  she  sees  one.     Ah — but  all  cannot  be  all. 

Miss  Mitford  wrung  a  promise  from  me — that  '  if  I 
were  well  enough  and  in  England  next  summer,  I  would 
go  to  see  her.'  So  remember.  Isn't  it  a  promise  for 
two? 

Only  we  shall  be  mule-riding  in  those  days — unless  I 
shall  have  tired  you.  Shall  you  be  tired  of  me  in  one  win- 
ter, I  wonder?  My  programme  is,  to  let  you  try  me  for 
one  winter,  and  if  you  are  tired  (as  I  shall  know  without 
any  confession  on  your  side)  why  then  I  shall  set  the  mule 
on  a  canter  and  leave  you  in  La  Cava,  and  go  and  live  in 
Greece  somewhere  all  alone,  taking  enough  with  me  for 
bread  and  salt.  Is  it  a  jest,  do  you  think?  Indeed  it  is 
not.  It  is  very  grave  earnest,  be  sure.  I  believe  that  I 
never  could  quarrel  with  you;  but  the  same  cause  would 
absolutely  hinder  my  living  with  you  if  you  did  not  love 
me.  We  could  not  lead  the  abominable  lives  of  '  married 
people '  all  round — you  hioio  we  could  not — I  at  least 
know  that  I  could  not,  and  just  because  I  love  you  so  en- 
tirely. Then,  you  know,  you  could  come  to  England  by 
yourself — and  .  .  '  Where's  Ba?  '-  '  Oh,  she's  somewhere 
in  the  world,  I  suppose.  How  can  Jtell?  '  And  then  Mrs. 
Jameson  would  shake  hor  head,  and  observe  that  the 
problem  was  solved  exactly  as  she  expected,  and  that  artis- 


292   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  3 

tical  natures  smelt  of  sulphur  and  brimstone,  without  any 
exceptions. 

Am  I  laughing?  am  I  crying?  who  can  tell.  But  I  am 
not  teasing,  .  .  Robert !  .  because,  my  Eobert,  if  gravely 
I  distrusted  your  affection,  I  could  not  use  such  light- 
sounding  words  on  the  whole — now  could  I?  It  is  only 
the  supposition  of  ApOssibU  future  .  .  just  possible  .  .  (as 
the  end  of  human  affections  passes  for  a  possible  thing)  — 
which  made  me  say  what  I  would  do  in  such  a  case. 

But  I  am  yours — your  own:  and  it  is  impossible,  in  my 
belief,  that  I  can  ever  fail  to  you  so  as  to  be  less  yours,  on 
this  side  the  grave  or  across  it.  So,  I  think  of  impossibil- 
ities— whatever  I  may,  of  possibilities! 

Will  it  be  possible  to  see  you  to-morrow,  I  wonder!  I 
ask  myself  and  no't  you. 

And  if  you  love  me  only  nearly  as  much  (instead  of  the 
prodigal  '  more ')  afterward,  I  shall  be  satisfied,  and  shall 
not  run  from  you  further  than  to  the  bottom  of  the  page. 
Where  you  see  me  as  your  own 

Ba. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  July  3,  1846.] 

I  am  forced  to  say  something  now  which  you  will  not 
like  and  which  I,  for  my  part,  hate  to  say — but  you  shall 
judge  how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  see  you  to-morrow. 

The  visitors  did  not  come  last  night ;  and  as  this  morn- 
ing we  expected  them  hourly,  the  post  brought  a  letter 
instead,  to  the  effect  that  they  were  to  arrive  just  on  Satur- 
day .  .  leaving  us  to  calculate  the  time  of  arrival  between 
one  p.m.  to  five  or  six.  If  at  one,  .  .  Papa  will  be  in  the 
house  and  likely  to  stay  in  it  all  day  after  .  .  which  would 
be  a  complication  of  disadvantages  for  us,  and  if  at  three 
.  .  why  even  so,  my  aunt  would  '  admire '  a  little  the  rea- 
son of  my  not  seeing  her  at  once,  and  there  would  be  ques- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  293 

tions  and  answers  a  faire  fremir.  So  dearest  dearest,  I 
must  try  to  live  these  two  days  more  without  seeing  you — 
and  indeed  it  will  be  hard  work — the  very  light  of  the  sun 
to-morrow,  let  it  be  ever  so  bright  a  sun,  will  only  reproach 
the  day  with  what  it  ought  to  have  been  .  .  our  day,  instead 
of  everybody's  day  or  nobody's  day,  a  poor,  blank,  dreary 
day.  What,  when  the  clock  is  at  three  .  .  oh  ivliat  will 
keep  me,  I  wonder,  from  being  sullen  to  my  aunt  and  sulky 
to  my  cousin?  They  will  think  me  (if  my  ministering 
angel  should  not  throw  me  some  hallowing  thought  of  you, 
best  beloved !)  considerably  fallen  off  in  the  morale,  how- 
ever the  improvement  may  be  of  the  bodily  health — I  shall 
be  as  cross,  as  cross  .  .  well,  if  I  am  less  than  cross,  you 
must  be  right  after  all,  and  I,  '  une  femme  miraculeuse ' 
without  illusion !  It  is  too  bad,  too  bad.  The  whole  week 
■ — from  Monday  to  Monday !  And  I  do  not  positively  fix 
even  Monday,  though  I  hope  for  Monday : — but  Monday 
may  be  taken  from  us  just  as  Saturday  is,  and  the  Hedleys 
are  to  come  on  Tuesday  .  .  only  not  to  this  house.  I  wish 
they  were  all  at  Seringapatam. 

Do  not  mind  it  however.  Yes,  mind  it  a  little,  .  . 
Robert !  but  not  overmuch — because  the  day  shall  not  be 
lost  utterly — I  shall  take  care.  I  will  be  on  the  watch  for 
half-days  when  people  go  out  to  shop  .  .  that  solemn 
business  of  life,  .  .  and  we  will  have  our  lost  day  back 
again  .  .  you  will  see.  But  I  could  not  get  to  Mrs. 
Jameson's  this  morning,  not  being  quite  well  enough.  It 
is  nothing  as  illness, — I  tell  you  the  truth,  dear — and  even 
now  I  feel  better  than  I  did  in  the  early  morning.  It  was 
only  just  enough  to  prevent  my  going.  And  if  I  had  gone 
I  should  not  have  seen  you — you  would  not  go  in  time — 
you  would  not  perhaps  even  have  my  letter  in  time.  The 
stars  are  against  us  for  the  moment,  it  seems. 

Write  to  me,  think  of  me,  love  me.  You  shall  hear 
on  Saturday  and  on  Sunday,  and  we  will  settle  about 
Monday. 

After  all,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  met  you 


294   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  3 

at  Mrs.  Jameson's,  observing  the  '  fitness  of  things '  :— 
and  as  I  am  subject  to  the  madness  of  saying  '  Robert ' 
without  knowing  it  .  .  .    ! 

May  God  bless  you.  Say  how  you  are !  Don't  let  me 
slide  out  of  your  mind  through  this  rift  in  the  rock.  I 
catch  at  the  jutting  stones. 

I  am  your  own  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  July  3,  1846.] 

No,  dear,  dear  Ba,  I  shall  not  see  you  to-day  in  spite 
of  all  the  hoping  and  fancying  .  .  for  I  could  not,  as  I 
calculate,  reach  Mrs.  Jameson's  before  1  o'clock  or  a  little 
later  .  .  and  there  would  be  the  worst  of  vexations,  to 
know  you  had  been  and  gone  again !  I  persuade  myself 
you  may  not  pay  the  visit  to-day,  .  .  (c  it  is  impossible ' 
you  say) ,  and  that  it  may  be  paid  next  week,  the  week  in 
which  there  is  only  one  day  for  us  .  .  how  do  you  say, 
dearest?  all  complaining  is  vain— let  to-morrow  make 
haste  and  arrive ! 

Ba,  there  is  nothing  in  your  letter  that  shocks  me, — 
nothing :  if  you  choose  to  imagine  that  '  possibility, '  you 
are  consistent  in  imagining  the  proper  step  to  take  .  .  it 
is  all  imagining.  But  I  feel  altogether  as  you  feel  about 
the  horribleness  of  married  friends,  mutual  esteemers  &c. 
— when  your  name  sounds  in  my  ear  like  any  other  name, 
your  voice  like  other  voices, — when  we  wisely  cease  to  in- 
terfere with  each  other's  pursuits, — respect  differences  of 
taste  &c.  &c,  all  will  be  over  then! 

I  cannot  myself  conceive  of  one  respect  in  which  I  shall 
ever  fall  from  this  feeling  for  you  .  .  there  never  has  been 
one  word,  one  gesture  unprompted  by  the  living,  immedi- 
ate love  beneath — but  there  have  been  many,  many,  so 
many  that  the  same  love  has  suppressed,  refused  to  be 
represented  by !    I  say  this,  because  I  can  suppose  a  man 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  295 

taking  up  a  service  of  looks  and  words,  which  service  is 
only  to  last  for  a  time,  and  so  may  be  endured, — after 
which  the  '  real  affection, '  '  honest  attachment '  &c.  &c. 
means  to  go  to  its  ends  by  a  shorter  road,  saving  useless 
ceremony  and  phrases  .  .  do  you  know  what  I  mean?  I 
hardly  do  .  .  except  that  it  is,  whatever  it  is,  opposed,  as 
heaven  to  earth,  to  what  I  feel  is.  I  count  confidently  on 
being  more  and  more  able  to  find  the  true  words  and  ways 
(which  may  not  be  spoken  words  perhaps),  the  true  rites  by 
which  you  should  be  worshipped,  you  dear,  dear  Ba,  my 
entire  blessing  now  and  ever — and  ever ;  if  God  shall  save 
me  also. 

Let  me  kiss  you  now,  and  long  for  to-morrow — I  shall 
bring  you  the  poorest  flowers all  is  brown,  dry,  au- 
tumnal. The  sun  shines  and  reproves  me  .  .  After  all, 
there  would  have  been  some  rocks  in  the  pleasant  water  of 
to-day's  meeting  .  .  '  Oh,  hardness  to  dissemble  ' ! 

Here  is  no  dissembling  .  .  I  kiss  you,  my  very  own ! 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

* 

Friday  Night. 
[Post-mark,  July  4,  1846.] 

Ah !  '  to-morrow,  make  haste  and  arrive. '  And  what 
good  will  to-morrow  do  when  it  comes? 

Dearest,  with  your  letter  to-night,  I  have  a  note  from 
Mrs.  Jameson,  who  proposes  that  I  should  go  to  her  just 
on  this  to-morrow,  between  twelve  and  one :  she  will  wait 
for  me  till  one  and  then  go  out.  Moreover  she  leaves 
town  on  Tuesday.  Now  I  think  I  ought  to  try  to  be  with 
her  this  time,  therefore,  on  the  hour  she  mentions,  and  I 
will  try  .  .  I  mean  to  try.  But  as  for  seeing  you  even  so, 
and  for  a  moment,  .  .  I  understand  that  it  scarcely  is 
possible — no,  not  possible — you  cannot  have  time,  I  think. 
Thinking  which,  understanding  which,  I  shall  yet,  in  spite 
of  reason,  listen  for  the  footstep  and  the  voice :  certainly 
I  shall  not  help  doing  that. 


296   THE  LETTEBS  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNING     [July  4 

Our  to-morrow ! — How  they  have  spoilt  it  for  us !  In 
revenge,  I  shall  love  you  to-morrow  twice  as  much,  look- 
ing, at  my  dead  flowers.  Twice  as  much!  !  '  Ba,  never 
talk  extravagances.''  Twice  as  much  is  a  giant  fifty  feet 
high.     It  is  foolish  to  be  fabulous. 

Being  better  this  evening  (almost  as  if  I  were  sure  to 
see  you  in  the  morning)  I  went  out  to  drive  with  Arabel 
and  Flush,  about  six  o'clock, — and  we  were  not  at  home 
until  eight,  after  having  seen  a  mirage  (as  it  appeared)  of 
green  fields  and  trees.  Beyond  Harrow  cemetery  we  went, 
through  silent  lanes  and  hedgerows — so  silent,  so  full  of 
repose!  Quite  far  away  over  the  tops  of  the  trees,  was 
'  London, '  Arabel  said  .  .  but  I  could  see  only  a  cloud : — 
it  seemed  no  more,  nor  otherwise.  Once  she  got  out  and 
went  into  a  field  to  give  Flush  a  run — and  I,  left  to  myself 
and  you,  read  your  last  letter  in  the  carriage,  under  the 
branches  which  were  dropping  separate  shadows  of  every 
leaf  they  had.  The  setting  sun  forced  them  to  it.  Oh — 
but  I  send  you  no  leaves,  because  I  could  not  reach  any, 
and  did  not  get  out  to  walk  to-day  where  I  might  have 
gathered  them.  Arabel  tried  hard  to  persuade  me  to  go 
into  the  cemetery — but  let  me  deserve  all  she  said  to  me 
about  weakness  and  foolishness,  .  .  really  that  sort  of 
thing  does  sadden  me — my  spirits  fall  flat  with  it :  it  is 
the  dark  side  of  death.  So  I  begged  her  to  go  by  herself 
and  to  leave  me  .  .  I  would  wait  for  her — and  she  should 
have  as  long  a  pleasure  in  that  pleasure-ground  of  the 
Dead,  as  she  liked.  '  Very  pretty,'  it  is  said  to  be — the 
dissenters  and  the  churchpeople  planted  in  separate  beds ; 
and  the  Boman  Catholics  conspicuous  for  their  roses  !  Oh 
that  ghastly  mixture  of  horror  and  frivolity  !  The  niaiserie 
of  their  divisions  and  subdivisions  taken  down  so  carefully 
into  the  dust !  But  Arabel  did  not  go  at  last,  and  we  were 
at  home  quite  late  enough. 

May  God  bless  you,  dear,  dear!  Give  me  all  my 
thoughts  (those  that  belong  to  me)  to-morrow.  Poor  dis- 
inherited to-morrow. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  297 

I  will  write  to-morrow,  at  any  rate — and  hear — let  me 
hear. 

And  you  are  the  best,  best!  When  I  speak  lead,  you 
answer  gold.  Because  I  '  do  not  shock '  you,  you  melt 
my  heart  away  with  joy. 

Yet  I  can  love  you  enough,  even  I ! 

Your  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  July  4,  1846.] 

Dearest  Ba,  I  am  at  Mrs.  Jameson's  .  .  to  hear  you 
cannot  come;  most  properly.  She  wants  me  to  go  and 
see  an  Exhibition,  and  I  cannot  refuse  .  .  so  this  is  my 
poor  long  letter  (with  kisses  in  the  words),  that  was  to 
have  been!  But  on  Monday,  dearest,  dearest,  I  shall  see 
you?  All  thanks  for  your  letter  .  .  I  dare  write  no  more, 
as  there  must  be  some  difference  in  my  way  of  writing  to 
you  from  other  ways. 

Bless  you,  ever,  as  I  am  ever  yours — 


B. 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 


Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  July  4,  1846.] 

Ah,  this  Saturday !  how  heavily  the  wheels  of  it  turn 
round !  as  if  '  with  all  the  weights  of  sleep  and  death  hung 
at  them. '  •  After  all  it  was  not  possible  for  me  to  get  to 
Mrs.  Jameson's  this  morning  .  .  not  that  I  was  unwell  to 
signify,  mind — but  unfit  for  the  exertion — and  it  would  not 
have  been  agreeable  to  anybody  if  I  had  gone  there  and 
fainted.  So  here  I  am,  the  picture  of  helpless  indolence, 
stretched  out  at  full  length  between  the  chair  and  the  high 
stool,  thinking  how  you  will  not  to-day  sit  on  the  low  one, 

nor  in  your  old  own  place  by  me oh  how  I  think,  think, 

think  of  you,  to  make  imperfect  amends !     Are  you  disap- 


298   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  4 

pointed  .  .  you?  I  hope  you  are,  and  I  fear  you  are. 
My  generosity  does  not  carry  me  through  the  hope-of  it 
to  the  end.  I  love  your  love  too  much.  And  that  is  the 
worst  fault,  my  beloved,  I  ever  can  find  in  my  love  of  you. 

Look,  what  Miss  Mitford  has  sent  me  from  the  Daily 
Neivs — Mr.  Home's  lament  for  poor  Haydon.  Tell  me  if 
you  do  not  like  it.  It  has  moved  me  much,  and  as  a  com- 
position it  is  fine,  I  think, — worthy  of  '  Orion.'  I  shall 
write  to  Mr.  Home  to  thank  him,  as  one  reader  of  many, 
for  touching  that  solemn  string  into  such  a  right  melody. 
To  my  mind,  it  is  worth,  and  more  than  worth,  twenty  such 
books  as  his  ballad-book — tell  me  if  it  isn't.  It  has  much 
affected  me. 

Papa  went  out  early — so  we  should  have  escaped  the 
'  complication ' — but  every  half-hour  we  are  expecting  our 
visitors.  And  for  Monday  .  .  I  scarcely  dare  say  yet 
'Come  on  Monday.'  Only  we  will  find  our  lost  Pleiads 
.  .  of  that,  be  very  sure — I  am  very  sure.  Still  to  miss 
one  for  a  moment  draws  me  into  darkness — or  .  .  do  you 
not  know  that  you  are  all  my  stars?  yes,  and  the  sun,  be- 
sides !  The  thing  which  people  call  a  sun  seems  to  shine 
quite  coldly  to-day,  because  you  are  not  on  this  side  of 
my  window.     '  All  complaining  is  vain,'  do  you  say? 

Let  me  pass  the  time  a  little,  then,  by  confessing  to 
you  that  what  you  said,  some  letters  ago,  about  the  char- 
acter of  our  intercourse,  in  our  present  relation,  being  a 
sort  of  security  for  the  future,  .  .  that  that  did  strike  me 
as  a  true  and  reasonable  observation  as  far  as  it  goes.  I 
think,  at  least,  that  if  I  were  inclined  to  fear  for  my  own 
happiness  apart  from  yours  (which,  as  God  knows,  is  a  fear 
that  never  comes  into  my  head),  I  should  have  sense  to 
reason  myself  clear  of  it  all  by  seeing  in  you  none  of  the 
common  rampant  man-vices  which  tread  down  a  woman's 
peace — and  which  begin  the  work  often  long  before  mar- 
riage. Oh,  I  understand  perfectly,  how  as  soon  as  ever 
a  common  man  is  sure  of  a  woman's  affections,  he  takes 
up  the  tone  of  right  and  might    .  .  and  he  will  have  it  so 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAREETT  299 

.  .  and  lie  zoon't  have  it  so !  I  have  heard  of  the  bitterest 
tears  being  shed  by  the  victim  as  soon  as  ever,  by  one 
word  of  hers,  she  had  placed  herself  in  his  power.  Of 
such  are  '  Lovers'  quarrels '  for  the  most  part.  The 
growth  of  power  on  one  side  .  .  and  the  struggle  against 
it,  by  means  legal  and  illegal,  on  the  other.  There  are 
other  causes,  of  course — but  for  none  of  them  could  it  be 
possible  for  one  to  quarrel  with  you  now  or  ever.  Neither 
now  nor  ever  do  I  look  forward  to  the  ordinary  dangers. 
What  I  have  feared  has  been  so  different !  May  God  bless 
you  my  own  .  .  own !  For  my  part,  you  have  my  leave 
to  make  me  unhappy  if  you  please.  It  only  would  be  just 
that  the  happiness  you  have  given,  you  should  take  away 
— it  is  yours,  as  I  am  yours. 

Say   how    your   head    is — say   how   your   mother  is. 
Think  of  me  with  the  thoughts  that  do  good. 

Your  own 
Ba. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  B.   R.    HAYDON. 

By  the  Author  of '  Orion. ' 

Mourn,  fatal  Voice,  whom  ancients  called  the  Muse! 

Thy  fiery  whispers  rule  this  mortal  hour, 

Wherein  the  toiling  Artist's  constant  soul 

Revels  in  glories  of  a  visioned  world, — 

Power,  like  a  god,  exalting  the  full  heart ; 

Beauty  with  suhtlest  ravishment  of  grace 

Refining  all  the  senses  ;  while  afar 

Through  vistas  of  the  stars  where  strange  friends  dwell, 

A  temple  smiles  for  him  to  take  his  seat 

Among  the  happy  Dead  whose  work  is  done. 

Mourn,  fatal  Voice,  whom  ancients  called  the  Muse ! 
Thou  lead'st  the  devotee  through  fruitful  bowers 
Wherein  Imagination  multiplies 
Divinely,  and,  with  noblest  ecstasy, 
To  nature  ever  renders  truth  for  truth. 

Mourn,  fatal  Voice,  whom  ancients  called  the  Muse! 
Thou  teachest  to  be  strong  and  virtuous ; 


300   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  6 

In  labour,  patient ;  clear-eyed  as  a  star, 
Self-truthful ;  vigilant  within  ;  and  full 
Of  faith  to  be,  and  do,  and  send  it  forth  ; — 
But  teachest  no  man  how  to  know  himself, 
His  over-measures  or  his  fallings  short, 
Nor  how  to  know  when  he  should  step  aside 
Into  the  quiet  shade,  to  wait  his  hour 
And  foil  the  common  dragon  of  the  earth. 

O  fatal  Voice  !  so  syren -sweet,  yet  rife 
With  years  of  sorrow,  deathbeds  terrible! 
Mourn  for  a  worthy  son  whose  aims  were  high, 
Whose  faith  was  strong  amidst  a  scoffing  age. 
No  warning  giv'st  thou,  on  the  perilous  path, 
To  those  who  need  the  gold  thy  teaching  scorns, 
Heedless  if  other  knowledge  hold  due  watch. 
Thou  fall 'st  with  heavenly  bliss  the  enraptured  eyes, 
While  the  feet  move  to  ruin  and  the  grave. 
Therefore,  O  voice,  inscrutably  divine, 
Uplifting  sunward,  casting  in  the  dust, 
Forgetting  man  as  man,  and  mindful  only 
Of  the  man-angel  even  while  on  earth, — 
Mourn  now  with  all  thine  ancient  tenderness, 
Mingled  with  tears  that  fall  in  heavy  drops, 
For  One  who  lost  himself,  remembering  thee ! 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  July  6,  1846.] 

You  will  have  known  by  my  two  or  three  words  that 
I  received  your  letter  in  time  to  set  out  for  Mrs.  J.'s — she 
said  to  me,  directly  and  naturally,  c  you  have  missed  a 
great  pleasure ' — and  then  accounted  for  your  absence. 
Do  not  be  sorry,  Ba,  at  my  gladness  .  .  for  I  was,  I  hope, 
glad  .  .  yes,  I  am  sure,  glad  that  you  ran  no  risk,  if  you 
will  not  think  of  that,  think  of  my  risk  if  you  had  '  fainted ' 
.  .  should  I  have  kept  the  secret,  do  you  suppose?  Oh, 
dearest  of  all  dreamt-of  dearness, — incur  no  unnecessary 
danger  now,  at  .  .  shall  I  dare  trust, —  the  end  of  the  ad- 
venture! I  cannot  fear  for  any  mischance  that  may  fol- 
low, once  let  my  arms  be  round  you  .  .  I  mean,  the  blow 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  301 

seems  then  to  fall  on  both  alike — now,  what  dismal,  ob- 
scure months  might  be  prolonged  between  us,  before  we 
meet  next,  by  a  caprice  where  the  power  is !  When  have 
I  been  so  long  without  the  blessing  of  your  sight !  Yet 
how  considerately  you  have  written,  what  amends  you 
make,  all  that  the  case  admits  of !  If  I  were  less  sure  of 
my  own  mind,  and  what  it  knows  for  best,  I  might  under- 
stand the  French  lover's  fancy  of  being  separated  from  his 
mistress  that  he  might  be  written  to  and  write  .  .  but  the 
very  best  I  know,  and  have  ever  in  sight,  and  constantly 
shall  strive  after  .  .  to  see  you  face  to  face,  to  live  so  and 
to  die  so — which  I  say,  because  it  ends  all,  all  that  can  be 
ended  .  .  and  yet  seems  in  itself  so  encountered — no  death, 
no  end- 
After  all,  I  may  see  you  to-morrow,  may  I  not?  There 
is  no  more  than  a  danger,  an  apprehension,  that  we  may 
lose  to-morrow  also,  is  there?  You  cannot  tell  me  after 
this  is  read  .  .  I  shall  know  before.  If  I  receive  no  letter, 
mind,  I  go  to  joxi  .  .  so  that  if  the  Post  is  in  fault  after 
its  custom,  and  your  note  arrives  at  3  o'clock,  you  will 
know  why  I  seem  to  disobey  it  and  call  .  .  and  I  shall 
understand  why  you  are  not  to  be  seen — but  I  will  hope. 

When  you  say  these  exquisitely  dear  and  tender  things, 
you  know  Ba,  it  is  as  if  the  sweet  hand  were  on  my  mouth 
— I  cannot  speak  .  .  I  try  to  seem  as  if  I  heard  not,  for 
all  the  joy  of  hearing  .  .  you  give  me  a  jewel  and  I  cannot 
repeat  '  you,  you  do  give  me  a  jewel.'  I  am  not  worthy  of 
any  gift,  you  must  know,  Ba, — never  say  you  do  not — but 
what  you  press  on  me,  let  me  feel,  and  half-see,  and  in  the 
end,  carry  away,  but  do  not  think  I  can,  in  set  words,  take 
them.  At  most,  they  are,  and  shall  be,  half -gift  half-loan 
for  adornment's  sake, — mine  to  wear,  yours  to  take  back 
again.  Even  this,  all  this  ungracefulness,  is  proper,  ap- 
propriate in  its  way — I  am  penetrated  with  shame  think- 
ing on  what  you  say,  and  what  my  utmost  devotion  will 
deserve  .  .  so  infinitely  less  will  it  deserve !  You  are  my 
very,  very  angel. 


302   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [ July  e 

Mrs.  Jameson  showed  rne  the  lines  you  had  sent  her, 
Home's  very  beautiful  poem, — very  earnest,  very  solemn 
and  pathetic, — worthy  of  Home  and  the  subject — and  you 
will  do  well  to  reward  him  as  you  propose.  I  think  I  will 
also  write  two  or  three  lines, — telling  him  that  you  called 
my  attention  to  the  poem, — so  that  he  may  understand  the 
new  friend  does  not  drive  out  the  old,  as  the  old  proverb 
says.  I  will  wait  a  day  or  two  and  write.  And  you  are 
herein,  too,  a  dear  good  Ba, — to  write  me  out  the  verses 
in  the  characters  I  love  best  of  all!  I  may  keep  them, 
I  hope. 

The  weather  is  hot  as  ever :  Ba,  remember  how  I  be- 
lieve in  you — is  the  indisposition  '  nothing  to  signify '  ? 
And  remember  the  confidence  I  make  you  of  every  slight- 
est headache  or  what  looks  like  it — tell  me  frankly  as  Ba 
should,  and  will  if  she  loves  me !  I  am  very  well  .  .  and 
my  mother  much  better.  I  observe  while  I  write,  the 
clouds  gather  propitiously  for  coolness  if  not  rain — may 
all  be  as  is  best  for  you — '  and  for  me?  '  Then  kiss  me, 
really,  through  the  distance,  and  love  me,  my  sweetest  Ba ! 

I  am  your  own — 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  July  6,  1846.] 

Will  it  do  if  you  come  on  Wednesday,  dearest?  It 
will  be  safer  I  think — and,  with  people  staying  in  the 
house,  it  is  necessary,  you  see,  to  consider  a  little.  My 
aunt  is  so  tired  with  her  journey  that  she  is  not  likely 
to  go  out  at  all  to-morrow — and  when  I  remember  that 
you  dine  with  Mr.  Kenyon  on  that  Wednesday,  it  seems 
marked  out  for  our  day.  Still  I  leave  it  to  you.  Never 
have  we  been  so  long  parted,  and  perhaps  by  Wednesday 
you  may  forget  me — ah  no !  Now  I  will  not  make  the 
time  longer  by  being  unkind  .   .  or  even  unjust. 

I  meant  to  write  you  a  long  letter  to-day, — but  first  my 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEEETT  303 

aunt  and  cousin  were  here  telling  me  all  the  statistics  of 
Arabella  Heclley's  marriage,— and  then  Mr.  Kenyon  came, 
.  .  and  on  such  a  very  different  subject,  his  talk  was,  that 
he  has  left  me  quite  depressed.  It  appears  that  poor  Mr. 
Haydon,  in  a  paper  entering  into  his  reasons  for  self-de- 
struction, says  that  he  has  left  his  manuscripts  to  me,  with 
a  desire  for  me  to  arrange  the  terms  of  their  publication 
with  Longman.  Of  course  it  has  affected  me  naturally  .  . 
such  a  proof  of  trust  when  he  had  so  many  friends  wiser 
and  stronger  to  look  to — but  I  believe  the  reference  to  be 
simply  to  the  fact  of  his  having  committed  to  my  care  all 
his  private  papers  in  a  great  trunk  .  .  one  of  three  which 
he  sent  here.  Two  years  ago  when  we  corresponded,  he 
made  me  read  a  good  part  of  his  memoirs,  which  he 
thought  of  publishing  at  that  time ;  and  then  he  asked  me 
(no,  it  was  a  year  and  a  half  ago)  to  speak  about  them  to 
some  bookseller  .  .  to  Longman,  he  said,  I  remember, 
then.  I  explained,  in  reply,  how  I  had  not  any  influence 
with  any  bookseller  in  the  world;  advising  him  besides 
not  to  think  of  printing,  without  considerable  modifica- 
tion, what  I  had  read.  In  fact  it  was — with  much  that 
was  individual  and  interesting, — as  unfit  as  possible  for 
the  general  reader — fervid  and  coarse  at  once,  with  per- 
sonal references  blood-dyed  at  every  page.  At  the  last, 
I  suppose,  the  idea  came  back  to  him  of  my  name  in  con- 
junction with  Longman's — -I  cannot  think  that  he  meant 
me  to  do  any  editor's  work,  for  which  (with  whatever  ear- 
nestness of  will)  I  must  be  comparatively  unfit,  both  as  a 
woman  and  as  personally  and  historically  ignorant  of  the 
persons  and  times  he  writes  of.  I  should  not  know  how 
one  reference  would  fall  innocently,  and  another  like  a 
thunderbolt,  on  surviving  persons.  I  only  know  that  with- 
out great  modification,  the  Memoirs  should  not  appear  at 
all  .  .  that  the  scandal  would  be  great  if  they  did.  At  the 
same  time  you  will  feel  with  me,  I  am  sure,  you  who  al- 
ways feel  with  me,  that  whatever  is  clearly  set  for  me  to 
do,  I  should  not  shrink  from  under  these  circumstances, 


304   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  6 

whatever  the  unpleasantness  may  be,  more  or  less,  in- 
volved in  the  doing.  But  if  Mr.  Serjeant  Talfourd  is  the 
executor  .  .  is  he  not  the  obviously  fit  person?  Well! 
there  is  no  need  to  talk  any  more.  Mr.  Kenyon  is  to  try 
to  see  the  paper.  It  was  Mr.  Forster  who  came  to  tell 
him  of  this  matter  and  to  get  him  to  communicate  it  to 
me.     Poor  Hay  don ! 

Dearest,  I  long  for  you  to  come  and  bring  me  a  little 
light.  Tell  me  how  you  are—  now  tell  me.  Tell  me  too 
how  your  mother  is. 

My  aunt's  presence  here  has  seemed  to  throw  me  back 
suddenly  and  painfully  into  real  life  out  of  my  dream-life 

with  you into  the  old  dreary  flats  of  real  life.     She 

does  not  know  your  name  even — she  sees  in  me  just  Ba 
who  is  not  your  Ba — and  when  she  talks  to  me  .  .  seeing 
me  so  .  .  I  catch  the  reflection  of  the  old  abstraction  as 
she  apprehends  it,  and  feel  myself  for  a  moment  a  Ba  who 
is  not  your  Ba  .  .  sliding  back  into  the  melancholy  of  it! 
Do  you  understand  the  curious  process,  I  talk  of  so  mist- 
ily? Do  you  understand  that  she  makes  me  sorrowful 
with  not  talking  of  you  while  she  talks  to  me?  Every- 
thing, in  fact,  that  divides  us,  I  must  suffer  from — so  I 
need  not  treat  metaphysically  of  causes  and  causes  .  . 
splitting  the  thinner  straws. 

Once  she  looked  to  the  table  where  the  remains  of  your 
flowers  are,  .  .  and  said,  '  I  suppose  Miss  Mitford  brought 
you  those  flowers.'  'No,'  I  answered,  'she  did  not.' 
'  Oh  no, '  began  Arabel  with  a  more  suggestive  voice,  '  not 
Miss  Mitford' s  flowers.'     But  I  turned  the  subject  quickly. 

Robert! — how  did  you  manage  to  write  me  the  dear 
note  from  Mrs.  Jameson's?  how  could  you  dare  write  and 
direct  it  before  her  eyes?  What  an  audacity  that  was  of 
yours.  Oh— and  how  I  regretted  the  missing  you,  as  you 
proved  it  was  a  missing,  by  the  letter !  Twice  to  miss  you 
on  one  day,  seemed  too  much  ill-luck  .  .  .  even  for  me,  1 
was  going  to  write  .  .  but  that  would  have  been  a  word  of 
my  old  life,  before  I  knew  that  I  was  born  to  the  best  for- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  305 

tune  and  happiest,  which  any  woman  could  have,      .  in 
being  loved  by  you. 

Dearest,  do  not  leave  off  loving  me.  Do  not  forget  me 
by  Wednesday.     Shall  it  be  Wednesday?  or  must  it  be 

Thursday  ?  answer  you. 

I  am  your  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  July  6,  1846.] 

When  I  read,  after  the  reasons  for  not  seeing  you  to- 
day, this — 'still  I  leave  it  to  you,' — believe,  dearest,  that 
I  at  once  made  the  sacrifice  and  determined  to  wait  till 
Wednesday, — as  seemed  best  for  you,  and  therefore  for 
me:  but  at  the  letter's  very  end,  amid  the  sweetest,  comes 
'  Wednesday  .  .  or  must  it  be  Thursday  ?  '  What  is  that  ? 
What '  must '  is  mine?  Shall  you  fear,  or  otherwise  suffer, 
if  we  appoint  Wednesday  ? 

Oh,  another  year  of  this!  Yet  I  am  not,  I  feel,  un- 
grateful to  the  Past  .  .  all  the  obstacles  in  the  world  can 
do  nothing  now,  nothing :  earlier  they  might  have  proved 
formidable  annoyances,  I  have  seen  enough  of  you,  Ba, 
for  an  eternity  of  belief  in  you  .  .  and  you,  as  you  con- 
fess, you  cannot  think  '  I  shall  forget. ' 

All  you  can,  you  compensate  me  for  the  absence — that 
such  letters,  instead  of  being  themselves  the  supremest 
reward  and  last  of  gains,  should  be — compensation,  at  the 
best!  Am  I  really  to  have  you,  all  of  you  and  altogether, 
and  always?  If  you  go  out  of  your  dream-life,  can  I  lie 
quietly  in  mine?  But  I  hold  your  hand  and  hear  your 
voice  through  it  all. 

How  do  these  abrupt  changes  in  the  temperature  affect 
you?  Yesterday  at  noon,  so  oppressively  hot — this  morn- 
ing, a  wind  and  a  cold.  Do  you  feel  no  worse  than  usual? 
If  you  do  not  tell  me, — you  know,  I  cannot  keep  away. 
Then,  this  disinspiriting  bequest  of  poor  Haydon's  journal 
Vol.  II.— 20 


306   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  6 

.  .  his  '  writings ' — from  which  all  the  harm  came,  and, 
it  should  seem,  is  still  to  come  to  himself  and  everybody 
beside — let  us  all  forget  what  came  of  those  descriptions 
and  vindications  and  explanations  interminable;  but  as 
for  beginning  another  sorrowful  issue  of  them, — it  is  part 
and  parcel  of  the  insanity — and  to  lay  the  business  of  edit- 
ing the  '  twenty-six '  (I  think)  volumes,  with  the  responsi- 
bility, on  you — most  insane !  Unless,  which  one  would 
avoid  supposing,  the  author  trusted  precisely  to  your 
ignorance  of  facts  and  isolation  from  the  people  able  to 
instruct  you.  Take  one  little  instance  of  how  '  facts  '  niay 
beset  down — in  the  Athenceum  was  an  account  of  Hay  don's 
quoting  Waller's  verse  about  the  eagle  reached  by  his  own 
feather  on  the  arrow, — which  he  applied  to  Maclise  and 
some  others,  who  had  profited  by  their  intimacy  with  him 
to  turn  his  precepts  to  account  and  so  surpass  him  in 
public  estimation:  now,  Maclise  was  in  Haydon's  com- 
pany for  the  first  time  at  Talfourd's  on  that  evening  when 
I  met  your  brother  there, — so  said  Talfourd  in  an  after- 
supper  speech, — and  Forster,  to  whom  I  mentioned  the 
circumstance,  assured  me  that  Maclise  '  called  on  Haydon 
for  the  first  time  only  a  few  months  ago '  .  .  I  suppose, 
shortly  after.  Now,  what  right  has  Maclise,  a  fine  gener- 
ous fellow,  to  be  subjected  to  such  an  imputation  as  that? 
With  an  impartial  prudent  man,  acquainted  with  the  ar- 
tists of  the  last  thirty  years,  the  editing  might  turn  to 
profit:  I  do  hope  for  an  exercise  of  Mr.  Kenyon's  caution 
here,  at  all  events.  And  then  how  horrible  are  all  these 
posthumous  revelations, — these  passions  of  the  now  pas- 
sionless, errors  of  the  at  length  better-instructed!  All 
falls  unfitly,  ungraciously — the  triumphs  or  the  despon- 
dencies, the  hopes  or  fears,  of — whom?  He  is  so  far 
above  it  all  now !  Even  in  this  life — imagine  a  proficient 
in  an  art  or  science,  who,  after  thirty  or  sixty  years  of 
progressive  discovery,  finds  that  some  bookseller  has  dis- 
interred and  is  about  publishing  the  raw  first  attempt  at 
a  work  which  he  was  guilty  of  in  the  outset ! 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  307 

All  of  which  you  know  better  than  I — what  do  you  not 
know  better?  Nor  as  well? — that  I  love  you  with  my 
whole  heart,  Ba,  dearest  Ba,  and  look  up  into  your  eyes 
for  all  light  and  life.     Bless  you. 

Tour  very  own — 

I  am  going  to  Talfourd's  to-morrow  (to  dine) — and  per- 
haps to  Chorley's  in  the  evening.  If  I  can  do  any  bidding 
of  yours  at  Talfourd's  .  .  but  that  seems  improbable, — 
with  Mr.  Kenyon,  too !  But  (this  behveen  our  very  selves) 
the  Talfourds,  or  at  least  Mrs.  T.,  please  to  take  one  of 
their  unimaginably  stupid  groundless  dislikes  to  him. 


K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  July  7,  1846.] 

But  I  meant  to  '  leave  it  to  you, '  not  to  come  before 
Wednesday  but  after  Wednesday,  in  case  of  some  Wednes- 
day's engagement  coming  to  cross  mine.  '  Ba's  old  way  ' 
.  .  do  you  cry  out!  Perhaps — only  that  an  engagement 
is  a  possible  thing  always.  Not  meaning  an  engagement 
with  Miss  Campbell.  I  hope,  hope,  then,  to  be  able  to 
see  you,  dearest  Kobert,  on  Wednesday.  On  Wednesday, 
at  last ! 

Here  is  a  letter  which  I  had  this  morning  from  Mr. 
Landor,  than  which  can  anything  be  more  gracious?  It 
appears  .  .  I  forgot  to  tell  you  yesterday  after  I  heard 
it  from  Mr.  Kenyon  .  .  it  appears  that  my  note  of  thanks 
had  my  signature  affixed  to  it  in  such  a  state  of  bad  writ- 
ing, that  Mr.  Landor,  being  sorely  puzzled,  sent  the  letter 
up  to  Mr.  Forster  to  be  read.  Mr.  Forster  read  it  (so  it 
could  be  read !)  and  then  took  it  to  Mr.  Kenyon,  who  read 
it  too,  and  afterwards  came  to  scold  me  for  being  perfectly 
illegible.  It  was  signed  at  full  length  too,  Elizabeth  Bar- 
rett Barrett  .  .  and  really  I  couldn't  believe  that  I  was 
very  guilty  till  Mr.  Landor 's  own  letter  persuaded  me  this 


£08   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  7 

morning  of  its  being  so  much  pleasanter  to  be  guilty  than 
innocent,  for  the  nonce. 

Ah — you  use  the  right  word  for  the  other  subject.  If 
a  bequest,  it  is  indeed  a  '  dispiriting  bequest, '  this  of  poor 
Haydon's.  But  I  hope  to  the  last  that  he  meant  simply 
to  point  to  me  as  the  actual  holder  of  the  papers— and  cer- 
tainly when  he  sent  the  great  trunk  here,  it  was  with  no 
intention  of  dying;  Mr.  Kenyon  agreed  with  me  to  that 
effect — I  showed  him  the  notes  which  I  had  found  and 
laid  aside  for  you,  and  which  you  shall  take  with  you  on 
Wednesday.  Still,  there  must  be  an  editor  found  some- 
where— because  the  papers  cannot  go  as  they  are  to  a 
publisher's  hands  from  mine,  if  I  only  hold  them.  Does 
any  one  say  that  I  am  a  fit  editor?  Have  I  the  power?  the 
knowledge  of  art  and  artists?  of  the  world?  of  the  times? 
of  the  persons?  All  these  things  are  against  me — and 
others  besides. 

Now  I  will  tell  you  one  thing  which  he  told  me  in  con- 
fidence, but  which  is  at  length  perhaps  in  those  papers — I 
tell  you  because  you  are  myself,  and  will  understand  the 
need  and  obligation  to  silence — and  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand besides  how  the  twenty-six  volumes  hang  heavily  on 
my  thoughts.  He  told  me  in  so  many  words  that  Mrs. 
Norton  had  made  advances  towards  him — and  that  his 
children,  in  sympathy  towards  their  mother,  had  dashed 
into  atoms  the  bust  of  the  poetess  as  it  stood  in  his  paint- 
ing room. 

If  you  can  say  anything  safely  for  me  at  Mr.  Talfourd's, 
of  course  I  shall  be  glad  .  .  and  Mr.  Kenyon  will  speak 
to  Mr.  Forster,  he  said.  I  want  to  get  back  my  letters  too 
as  soon  as  I  can  do  it  without  disturbing  anyone's  peace. 
What  is  in  those  letters,  I  cannot  tell,  so  impulsively  and 
foolishly,  sometimes,  I  am  apt  to  write;  and  at  that  time, 
through  caring  for  nobody  and  feeling  so  loose  to  life,  I 
threw  away  my  thoughts  without  looking  where  they  fell. 
Often  my  sisters  have  blamed  me  for  writing  in  that  wild 
way  to  strangers — and  I  should  like  to  have  the  letters 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEKETT  309 

back  before  they  shall  have  served  to  amuse  two  or  three 
executors — but  of  this  too,  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Kenyon. 

Still  it  is  not  of  me  that  we  are  called  to  think — and  I 
would  not  for  the  world  refuse  any  last  desire,  if  clearly 
signified,  and  if  the  power  should  be  with  me.  He  was 
not  a  common  man — he  had  in  him  the  stuff  of  greatness, 
this  poor  Hay  don  had;  and  we  must  consider  reverently 
whatever  rent  garment  he  shall  have  left  behind.  Quite, 
in  some  respects,  I  think  with  you — but  your  argument 
does  appear  to  me  to  sweep  out  too  far  on  one  side,  so 
that  if  you  do  not  draw  it  back,  Robert,  you  will  efface  all 
autobiography  and  confession — tear  out  a  page  bent  over 
by  many  learners — I  mean  when  you  say  because  he  is 
above  (now)  the  passions  and  frailties  he  has  recorded, 
we  should  put  from  us  the  record.  True,  he  is  above  it 
all — true,  he  has  done  with  the  old  Hay  don;  like  a  man 
outgrowing  his  own  childhood  he  will  not  spin  this  top 
any  more.  Oh,  it  is  true — I  feel  it  all  just  as  you  do. 
But,  after  all,  a  man  outgrowing  his  childhood,  may  leave 
his  top  to  children,  and  no  one  smile !  This  record  is  not 
for  the  angels,  but  for  us,  who  are  a  little  lower  at  high- 
est. Three  volumes  perhaps  may  be  taken  from  the 
twenty-six  full  of  character  and  interest,  and  not  with- 
out melancholy  teaching.  Only  some  competent  and 
sturdy  hand  should  manage  the  selection;  as  surely 
as  mine  is  unfit  for  it.  But  where  to  seek  discretion? 
delicacy  ? 

Dearest,  I  speak  the  truth  to  you — I  am  not  ill  indeed. 
When  I  was  at  best  in  health  I  used  sometimes  to  be  a 
little  weak  and  faint,  and  it  has  only  been  so  for  this  last 
day  or  two.  By  Wednesday  the  cloud  will  have  passed. 
And,  do  you  know,  I  have  found  out  something  from  our 
long  parting,  .  .  I  have  found  out  that  I  love  you  better 
than  even  I  thought.  There's  a  piece  of  finding  out !  My 
own  dearest — what  would  become  of  me  indeed,  if  I  could 
not  see  you  on  Wednesday  nor  on  Thursday  nor  on  Fri- 
day?— no  breath  I  have,  for  going  on.    No  breath  I  should 


310   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [July  7 

have,  for  living  on.     I  do  kiss  you  through  the  distance 

since  you  tell  me.     I  love  you  with  my  soul. 

Your  own  I  am. 

Three  of  the  flowers  and  nearly  all  the  little  blue  ones 
stay  with  me  all  this  while  to  comfort  me !  !  isn't  it  kind 
of  them? 

Two  letters  to-day — and  such  letters  !  Ah— if  you  love 
me  always  but  half  as  much — I  will  agree  with  you  now  for 
half !  Yet,  O  Hesiod,  half  is  not  better  than  the  whole,  by 
any  means !  Yet  .  .  if  the  whole  went  away,  and  did  not 
leave  me  half ! — 

When  I  was  a  child  I  heard  two  married  women  talk- 
ing. One  said  to  the  other  .  .  '  The  most  painful  part 
of  marriage  is  the  first  year,  when  the  lover  changes  into 
the  husband  by  slow  degrees.'  The  other  woman  agreed, 
as  a  matter  of  fact  is  agreed  to.  I  listened  with  my  eyes 
and  ears,  and  never  forgot  it  ..  as  you  observe.  It 
seemed  to  me,  child  as  I  was,  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  a 
husband  by  such  a  process.  Now,  it  seems  to  me  more 
dreadful. 

Si  l'ame  est  immortelle 
L'amour  ne  l'est-il  pas? 

Beautiful  verses — just  to  prove  to  you  that  I  do  not  re- 
member only  the  disagreeable  things  .  .  only  to  teaze  you 
with,  like  so  many  undeserved  reproaches.  And  you  so 
good,  so  best —  Ah — but  it  is  that  which  frightens  me! 
so  far  best ! 

You  were  foolish  to  begin  to  love  me,  you  know,  as  al- 
ways I  told  you,  my  belovsd! — but  since  you  would  begin, 
.  .  go  on  to  do  it  as  long  as  you  can  .  .  do  not  leave  me 
in  the  wilderness.     God  bless  you  for  me ! — 

I  am  your  Ba. 

Think  if  people  were  to  get  hold  of  that  imputation  on 
poor  Mrs.  Norton — think ! 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  311 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Morning 

in  haste. 

[Post-mark,  July  7',  1846.] 

Dearest,  I  am  uncertain  whether  I  can  see  you  to-mor- 
row. To-night  I  will  write  again — you  shall  hear.  You 
tell  me  to  risk  nothing  .  .  which  is  what  I  feel.  But  I 
long,  long  to  see  you.     You  shall  hear  in  the  morning. 

Bead  the  note  which  Mr.  Kenyon  sends  me  from  Mr. 
Forster.  Very  averse  I  feel,  from  applying,  in  the  way 
prescribed,  to  Mr.  Serjeant  Talfourd.  Tell  me  what  to  do, 
Robert  .  .  my  '  famous  in  council ! '  Sick  at  heart,  it  all 
makes  me.     Am  I  to  write  to  Mr.  Talfourd,  do  you  think? 

Oh,  you  would  manage  it  for  me — but  to  mix  you  up  in 
it,  will  make  a  danger  of  a  worse  evil.  May  God  bless  you, 
my  own.  I  may  see  you  to-morrow  perhaps  after  all — it 
is  a  'perhaps  '  though  .  .  and  I  am  surely 

Your  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  July  7,  1846.] 

Dearest,  the  first  thing  to  say  is  the  deep  joy  fulness  of 
expecting  to  see  you,  really,  to-morrow — mind,  the  engage- 
ment with  Mr.  Kenyon  is  nothing  in  the  way.  If  you  can- 
not let  me  stay  the  usual  time — I  can  call,  pass  away  the 
interval  easily  .  .  this  is  a  superfluous  word  to  your  good- 
ness which  is  superfluous  in  these  '  old  ways  of  Ba's ' — 
dear  Ba,  whom  I  kiss  with  perfect  love — and  shall  soon 
kiss  in  no  dream !  Landor  is  all  well  enough  in  one  sen- 
tence .  .  happily  turned  that  is, — but  I  am  vexed  at  his 
strange  opinion  of  Goethe's  poem, — and  the  more,  that  a 
few  years  ago  he  wrote  down  as  boldly  that  nothing  had 
been  written  so  '  Hellenic '  these  two  thousand  years — (in 


312    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  7 

a  note  to  the  '  Satire  on  the  Satirists  ') — and  of  these  opin- 
ions I  think  the  earlier  much  nearer  the  truth.  Then  he 
wrote  so,  because  Wordsworth  had  depreciated  Goethe — 
now,  very  likely,  some  maladroit  applauder  has  said  Lan- 
dor's  own  '  Iphigenia'  is  worthy  of  Goethe, — or  similar 
platitudes. 

Yes,  dearest,  you  are  quite  right — and  my  words  have 
a  wrong  sense,  and  one  I  did  not  mean  they  should  bear, 
if  they  object  to  confessions  and  autobiographies  in  gen- 
eral. Only  the  littleness  and  temporary  troubles,  the 
petty  battle  with  foes,  which  is  but  a  moment's  work  how- 
ever the  success  may  be,  all  that  might  go  when  the  occa- 
sion, real  or  fancied,  is  gone.  I  would  have  the  customary 
'  habits, '  as  we  say,  of  the  man  preserved,  and  if  they 
were  quilted  and  stiffened  with  steel  and  bristling  all  over 
with  the  offensive  and  defensive  weapons  the  man  judged 
necessary  for  his  safety, — they  should  be  composed  and 
hung  up  decently — telling  the  true  story  of  his  life.  But 
I  should  not  preserve  the  fretful  gesture,— lift  the  arm,  as 
it  was  angrily  lifted  to  keep  off  a  wolf — which  now  turns 
out  to  have  been  only  Flush  in  a  fever  of  vigilance — half- 
drew  the  sword  which— Ah,  let  me  have  done  with  this ! 
You  understand,  if  I  do  not.  For  the  bad  story, — the  tell- 
ing that,  if  it  were  true,  is  nearly  as  bad  as  inventing  it. 
That  poor  woman  is  the  hack-block  of  a  certain  class  of 
redoubtable  braggarts — there  are  such  stories  by  the  dozen 
in  circulation.  All  may  have  been  misconception  .  .  '  ad- 
vances ' — to  induce  one  more  painter  to  introduce  her  face 
in  his  works. 

My  time  is  out  .  .  I  had  much  to  say,  but  this  letter 
of  mine  arrived  by  the  afternoon  post, — shame  on  the 
office !     To-morrow ! 

Bless  you,  ever  dearest  dearest — 

Your  own. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  313 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  8,  1846.] 

Yes— I  understand  you  perfectly — and  it  should  be 
exactly  as  you  say — and  it  is  just  that,  which  requires  so 
much  adroitness,  — and  such  decision  and  strength  of  hand, 
to  manage  these  responsibilities.  Somebody  is  wanted  to 
cut  and  burn,  and  be  silent  afterwards.  I  remember  that 
bitter  things  are  said  of  Shelley  and  Leigh  Hunt  beyond 
all  the  bitterness  of  alcohol.  Olives  do  not  taste  so, 
though  steeped  in  salt.  There  are  some  curious  letters 
by  poor  Keats  about  Hunt,  and  they  too  are  bitter.  It 
would  be  dreadful  to  suffer  these  miseries  to  sow  them- 
selves about  the  world,  like  so  much  thistle-down  .  .  the 
world,  where  there  are  thistles  enough  already,  to  make 
fodder  for  its  wild  asses ! 

As  to  Landor  .  .  oh,  I  did  not  remember  the  note  you 
speak  of  in  the  satire  you  speak  of — but  you  remember 
everything  .  .  .  even  me.  Is  it  not  true  that  Landor, 
too,  is  one  of  the  men  who  carry  their  passions  about  with 
them  into  everything,  as  a  boy  would,  pebbles  .  .  mud- 
dying every  clear  water,  with  a  stone  here  and  a  stone 
there.  The  end  is,  that  we  lose  the  image  of  himself  in 
the  serene  depth,  as  we  might  have  had  it — and  the  little 
stone  comes  to  stand  for  him.  How  unworthy  of  such  a 
man  as  Landor,  such  weakness  is !  To  think  with  one's 
temper !  !  One  might  as  well  be  at  once  Don  Quixote,  and 
fight  with  a  warming-pan. 

But  I  did  not  remember  the  former  opinion.  I  took  it 
for  a  constitutional  fancy  of  Landor's,  and  did  not  smile 
much  more  at  it  than  at  my  own  '  profundity  in  German,' 
which  was  a  matter  of  course  .  .  of  course  .  .  of  course. 
For  have  I  not  the  gift  of  tongues?  Don't  I  talk  Syriac 
.  .  as  well  as  Flush  talks  English — and  Hebrew,  like  a 
prophetess  .  .  and  various  other  languages  and  dialects 


314   THE  LETTERS  OF  EOBERT  BROWNING      [July  8 

less  familiarly  known  to  persons  in  general  than  these 
aforesaid?  So,  profound  indeed,  must  be  the  German  and 
the  Dutch !  And  perhaps  it  may  not  be  worth  while  to 
answer  Mr.  Landor's  note  for  the  mere  purpose  of  telling 
him  anything  about  it. 

Dearest ! — I  have  written  all  this  before  I  would  say  a 
word  of  your  coming,  just  to  think  a  little  more — and  down 
all  these  pages  I  have  been  thinking,  thinking,  of  you  .  . 
of  your  possible  coming  .  .  what  nonsense  they  must  be ! 
Well !  and  the  end  is  that,  let  it  be  wise  or  unwise,  I  must 
and  ivill  see  you  to-morroiv — I  cannot  do  otherwise.  It  is 
just  as  if  Flush  had  been  shut  up  in  a  box  for  so  many 
days.  My  spirits  flag  .  .  and  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  grow  cross  like  Landor  and  deny  Goethe.  So  come, 
dearest  dearest — and  let  the  world  bark  at  our  heels  if  it 
pleases.     I  will  just  turn  round  and  set  Flush  at  it. 

For  two  or  three  days  I  have  not  been  out — not  for  two 
days  .  .  not  out  of  this  room.  This  evening  at  seven, 
when  they  were  all  going  to  dinner,  I  took  Wilson  with 
me  and  drove  into  the  park  for  air.  It  will  do  me  good 
perhaps — but  your  coming  will,  certainly.  So  come,  my 
dearest  beloved ! — At  three,  remember. 

Your  own 

Ba. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Private  Wednesday  7.  a.m. 

[Post-mark,  July  8,  1846.] 

My  own  Ba,  I  received  your  note  on  my  return  from 
Talfourd's  last  night.  I  am  anxious  to  get  the  first  post 
for  this,  so  can  only  use  the  bare  words, — if  those.  After 
dinner,  Forster  put  a  question  to  our  host  about  the 
amount  of  the  subscription;  and  in  a  minute  the  paper- 
bequest  was  introduced.  Talfourd  had  received  a  letter 
from  Miss  Mitford,  enclosing  one  from  you  (or  a  copy  of 
one  .  .  I  did  not  hear) — whereat  he  pronounced  so  em- 
phatically upon  H. 's  conduct  in  making  you, — '  who  could 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEEETT  315 

never  have  known  the  nature  of  the  transaction  nor  the 
very  serious  consequences  it  involved ' — the  depositary  of 
his  pictures  &c.  on  such  occasions, — the  words,  '  H.  it 
seems,  has  been  in  the  habit  of  using  Miss  B's  house  &c.' 
(or  to  that  effect)  had  so  offensive  an  implication, — that  I 
felt  obliged  to  say  simply,  you  had  never  seen  Haydon  and 
were  altogether  amazed  and  distressed  at  his  desire, — and 
that,  for  the  other  matter,  what  he  chose  to  send,  you 
could  not,  I  supposed,  bring  yourself  to  refuse  admittance 
to  the  house.  I  gave  no  particular  account  of  my  own 
means  of  knowledge,  nor  spoke  further  than  to  remove  the 
impression  from  the  minds  of  the  people  present  that  you 
must  have  '  known  '  Haydon,  as  they  call  '  knowing  ' — and 
Forster,  for  one,  expressed  surprise  at  it.  I  ventured  to 
repeat  what  I  mentioned  to  you — '  that  it  seemed  likely 
you  were  selected  for  the  Editorship  precisely  on  account 
of  your  isolation  from  the  world. ' 

Soon  after,  Forster  went  away — and,  upstairs,  IgotTal- 
fourd  alone,  and  just  told  him  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
corresponding  with  you,  that  you  had  made  me  acquainted 
with  a  few  of  the  circumstances,  and  that  you  had  at  once 
thought  of  him,  Talfourd,  as  the  proper  source  of  instruc- 
tion on  the  subject.  Talfourd' s  reply  amounted  to  this, — 
(in  the  fewest  words  possible).  The  will  &c  is  of  course 
an  absurdity.  The  papers  are  the  undoubted  property  of 
the  creditors  .  .  any  attempt  to  publish  them  would  sub- 
ject you  to  an  action  at  law.  They  were  given  prospec- 
tively to  you  exactly  J or  the  reason  I  suggested:  they  having 
been  in  the  first  instance  offered  to  Talfourd.  Haydon 
knew  that  T.  would  never  print  them  in  their  offensive  in- 
tegrity, and  hoped  that  you  ivould — being  quite  of  the  aver- 
age astuteness  in  worldly  matters  when  his  own  vanity  and 
selfishness  were  not  concerned.  They  might,  these  papers, 
be  published  with  advantage  to  Mrs.  Haydon  at  some  fu- 
ture time  if  the  creditors  permit — or  without  their  permit- 
ting, if  woven  into  a  substantially  new  framework;  as 
some  '  Haydon  and  his  Times, '  or  the  like  .  .  but  there 


316   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  8 

is  nothing  to  call  for  such  a  step  at  present,  even  in  that 
view  of  advantage  to  the  family  .  .  the  subscription  and 
other  assistances  being  sufficient  for  their  necessities. 
Therefore  the  course  T.  would  recommend  you  to  adopt 
is  to  let  the  deposit  {if  you  have  one  .  .  for  he  did  not 
know,  and  I  said  nothing) — lie  untouched — not  giving  them 
up  to  anybody,  any  creditor,  to  Mrs.  H's  prejudice. 

Now,  can  you  do  better  than  as  Forster  advises?  Tal- 
fourd  goes  on  circuit  to-morrow — he  said,  '  I  can  hear,  or 
arrange  anything  with  Miss  B's  brother  ' — so  that,  if  there 
should  be  no  time,  you  can  write  by  him,  and  entrust  ex- 
planations &c.  But  would  it  not  be  best  to  get  done  with 
this  matter  directly — to  write  a  brief  note  in  the  course  of 
to-day,  mentioning  the  facts,  and  requesting  advice?  In 
order  to  leave  you  the  time  to  do  this, — should  the  post 
presently  bring  me  a  letter  allowing  me  to  see  you  at 
three  .  .  unless  the  allowance  is  very  free,  very  irresist- 
ible .  .  I  will  rather  take  to-morrow  .  .  a  piece  of  self- 
denial  I  fear  I  should  not  so  readily  bring  myself  to  ex- 
hibit, were  I  not  really  obliged  to  pass  your  house  to-day ; 
so  that  even  Ba  will  understand ! 

Miss  Mitford's  note  appears  to  have  been  none  of  the 
wisest — indeed  a  phrase  or  two  I  heard,  were  purely  fool- 
ish :  H.  was  said  to  have  practised  '  Ion's  principle ' ! 

T.  had  known  Haydon  most  intimately  and  for  a  long 
time :  he  does  not  believe  H.  was  mad — of  a  mad  vanity, 
of  course.  His  last  paper  .  .  '  Haydon's  Thoughts  '  .  . 
was  a  dissertation  on  the  respective  merits  of  Napoleon 
and  Wellington — how  wrong  Haydon  felt  he  had  been  to 
prefer  the  former  .  .  and  the  why  and  the  wherefore.  All 
this  wretched  stuff,  in  a  room  theatrically  arranged, — here 
his  pictures,  there  .  .  God  forgive  us  all,  fools  or  wise  by 
comparison!  The  debts  are  said  to  be  =£3,000  .  .  he  hav- 
ing been  an  insolvent  debtor  .  .  how  long  before?  His 
landlord,  a  poor  man,  is  creditor  for  £1,200. 

Here  I  will  end,  and  wait :  this  is  written  in  all  haste 
.  .  and  is  so  altogether  no  proper  letter  of  mine  that  I 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  317 

shall  put  the  necessary  '  Private '  at  the  top  of  it.     My 
letter  shall  go  presently,  if  I  do  not  go,  to  my  own  Ba — 

E.  B. 

Should  you  write  to  your  brother  .  .  will  he  need  re- 
minding that  Talfourd  is  only  to  know  we  correspond, — 
not  that  we  are  personally  acquainted?  Had  you  not  better 
mention  this  in  any  case? 

God  bless  you,  dearest, — what  a  letter  from  me  to  you 
— to  Ba !     Time,  Time ! 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  July  9,  1846.] 

My  own  darling,  my  Ba,  do  you  know  when  I  read 
those  letters  (as  soon  as  I  remembered  I  had  got  them, — ■ 
for  you  hold  me  long  after  both  doors,  up  and  down  stairs, 
shut)  when  I  looked  through  them,  under  a  gateway  .  .  I 
was  pricked  at  the  heart  to  have  thought  so,  and  spoken  so, 
of  the  poor  writer.  I  will  believe  that  he  was  good  and 
even  great  when  in  communication  with  you — indeed  all 
men  are  made,  or  make  themselves,  different  in  their  ap- 
proaches to  different  men— and  the  secret  of  goodness  and 
greatness  is  in  choosing  whom  you  will  approach,  and  live 
with,  in  memory  or  imagination,  through  the  crowding 
obvious  people  who  seem  to  live  with  you.  That  letter 
about  the  glory  of  being  a  painter  '  if  only  for  the  neglect ' 
is  most  touching  and  admirable  .  .  there  is  the  serene 
spot  attained,  the  solid  siren's  isle  amid  the  sea;  and  while 
there,  he  was  safe  and  well  .  .  but  he  would  put  out  to 
sea  again,  after  a  breathing  time,  I  suppose?  though  even 
a  smaller  strip  of  land  was  enough  to  maintain  Blake,  for 
one  instance,  in  power  and  glory  through  the  poor,  fleet- 
ing '  sixty  years  ' — then  comes  the  rest  from  cartooning 
and  exhibiting.  But  there  is  no  standing,  one  foot  on 
land  and  one  on  the  waves,  now  with  the  high  aim  in  view, 


318   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING-     [July  9 

now  with  the  low  aim, — and  all  the  strange  mistaken  talk 
about  '  prestiges, '  '  Youth  and  its  luck, '  Napoleon  and  the 
world's  surprise  and  interest.  There  comes  the  low  aim 
between  the  other, — an  organ  grinds  Mr.  Jullien's  newest 
dance-tune,  and  Camoens  is  vexed  that  the  '  choral  singing 
which  brought  angels  down,'  can't  also  draw  street-pas- 
sengers round. 

I  take  your  view  of  H.'s  freedom,  at  that  time,  from 
the  thoughts  of  what  followed. 

He  was  weak — a  strong  man  would  have  borne  what  so 
many  bear — what  were  his  griefs,  as  grief  goes  ?  Do  you 
remember  I  told  you,  when  the  news  of  Aliwal  and  the 
other  battles  came  to  England,  of  our  gardener,  and  his 
son,  a  sergeant  in  one  of  the  regiments  engaged  .  .  how 
the  father  could  learn  nothing  at  first,  of  course  .  .  how 
they  told  him  at  the  Horse  Guards  he  should  be  duly  in- 
formed in  time,  after  his  betters,  whether  this  son  was 
dead,  or  wounded.  Since  then,  no  news  came  .  .  c  which 
is  good  news  '  the  father  persuaded  himself  to  think  .  .  so 
the  apprehensions  subside,  and  the  hope  confirms  itself, 
more  and  more,  while  the  old  fellow  digs  and  mows  and 
rakes  away,  like  a  man  painting  historical  pictures  .  . 
only  without  the  love  of  it.  Well,  this  morning  we  had 
his  daughter  here  to  say  '  the  letter '  had  arrived  at  last 
.  .  her  brother  was  killed  in  the  first  battle,  so  there's  an 
end  of  the  three  months'  sickness  of  heart, — and  the  poor 
fellow  must  bear  his  loss  '  like  a  man' — or  like  a  woman 
.  .  for  I  recollect  another  case,  of  an  old  woman  whom  my 
mother  was  in  the  habit  of  relieving, — who  brought  a  letter 
one  day  which  she  could  hardly  understand — it  was  from 
her  son,  a  sailor,  and  went  on  for  a  couple  of  pages  about 
his  good  health  and  expectations, — then,  in  a  different 
handwriting,  somebody,  '  your  son's  shipmate  '  '  took  up 
his  pen  to  inform  you  that  he  fell  from  the  masthead  into 
the  sea  and  was  drowned  yesterday, — which  he  therefore 
thought  it  right  to  put  in  the  unfinished  letter. '  All  which 
the  old  woman  bore  somehow, — seeing  she  lives  yet. 


i846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  319 

Well, — ought  not  I  to  say  Mr.  Kenyon  was  as  kind  as 
usual,  and  his  party  as  pleasant?  No,  for  you  know — 
what  you  cannot  by  possibility  know,  it  seems,  is,  that  I 
am  not  particularly  engaged  next  Saturday !  Ba,  shall  I 
really  see  you  so  soon?  Bless  you  ever,  my  very,  very 
own!  I  shall  not  hear  to-day  .  .  but  to-morrow, — do  but 
not  keep  me  waiting  for  that  letter,  and  the  mules  shall  be 
ready  hours  and  hours,  for  any  sign  I  will  have,  at  La  Cava ! 

Ever  your  R. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  July  9,  1846.  ] 

See  what  an  account  we  have  this  morning  of  La  Cava 
.  .  '  quite  impossible  for  the  winter. '  What  does  '  quite 
impossible '  quite  mean,  I  wonder?  I  feel  disappointed. 
As  to  Palermo,  you  would  rather  be  in  Italy,  and  so  would 
I,  perhaps.  Salerno  seems  questionable  too;  and  Vietri 
.  .  what  of  Vietri?  I  don't  at  all  see  why  we  should  re- 
ceive the  responses  of  this  friend  of  my  friend  who  is  not 
so  very  much  my  friend,  as  if  they  were  oracular  and  final. 
There  must  be  the  right  of  appeal  for  us  to  other  authori- 
ties. Will  you  investigate  and  think  a  little?  For  my 
part  I  shall  not  care  to  what  place  we  go,  except  for  the 
climate's  sake — the  cheapness  too  should  be  considered  a 
little :  and,  for  the  rest,  every  place  which  you  should  like, 
I  should  like,  and  which  you  liked  most,  I  should  like 
most — everything  is  novelty  to  me,  remember. 

My  uncle  Hedley  has  just  come  now,  and  I  must 
quicken  my  writing.  Oh — to  be  so  troubled  just  now  .  . 
just  now! —  But  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Serjeant  Talfourd  last 
night,  and  told  him  as  fully  and  as  briefly  as  I  could  the 
whole  position  .  .  and  that  vexation  I  shall  try  now  to 
throw  behind  me,  after  the  fashion  of  dear  Mr.  Kenyon' s 
philosophy.  I  put  the  thought  of  you,  beloved,  between 
me  and  all  other  thoughts — surely  I  can,  when  you  were 
here  only  yesterday.     So  much  to  think  of,  there  is !     One 


320   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [July  9 

tiling  made  me  laugh  in  the  recollection.  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  Mrs.  Jameson  that  you  are  going  to  marry  me,  '  be- 
cause it  is  intolerable  to  hear  me  talked  of?  '  That  would 
be  an  original  motive.     '  So  speaks  the  great  poet.' — 

Ah  Flush,  Flush ! — he  did  not  hurt  you  really  ?  You 
will  forgive  him  for  me?  The  truth  is  that  he  hates  all 
unpetticoated  people,  and  that  though  he  does  not  hate 
you,  he  has  a  certain  distrust  of  you,  which  any  outward 
sign,  such  as  the  umbrella,  reawakens.  But  if  you  had 
seen  how  sorry  and  ashamed  he  was  yesterday  !  I  slapped 
his  ears  and  told  him  that  he  never  should  be  loved  again : 
and  he  sate  on  the  sofa  (sitting,  not  lying)  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  me  all  the  time  I  did  the  flowers,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  quite  despair  in  his  face.  At  last  I  said,  c  If  you 
are  good,  Flush,  you  may  come  and  say  that  you  are 
sorry '  .  .  on  which  he  dashed  across  the  room  and, 
trembling  all  over,  kissed  first  one  of  my  hands  and  then 
another,  and  put  up  his  paws  to  be  shaken,  and  looked 
into  my  face  with  such  great  beseeching  eyes  that  you 
would  certainly  have  forgiven  him  just  as  I  did.  It  is  not 
savageness.  If  he  once  loved  you,  you  might  pull  his  ears 
and  his  tail,  and  take  a  bone  out  of  his  mouth  even,  and 
he  would  not  bite  you.  He  has  no  savage  caprices  like 
other  dogs  and  men  I  have  known. 

Writing  of  Flush,  in  my  uncle  comes,  and  then  my  cou- 
sin, and  then  my  aunt  .  .  .  by  relays  !  and  now  it  is  nearly 
four  and  this  letter  may  be  too  late  for  the  post  which 
reaches  you  irregularly.  So  provoked  I  am ! — but  I  shall 
write  again,  to-night,  you  know. 

Dearest,  you  did  me  so  much  good  yesterday !  Say 
how  your  head  is — and  remember  Saturday.  Saturday 
will  be  clear  through  Chiswick — may  the  sun  shine  on  it ! — 

Your  own  Ba. 

Think  of  the  dreadful  alternative  as  set  forth  in  this 
MS.! —  The  English  .  .  or  a  bad  climate! — Can  it  be 
true? 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  321 


Enclosuee. 

[La  Cava  is  impossible  for  the  winter  owing  to  the  damp 
and  cold.  At  no  season  should  any  person  remain  out  at 
the  hour  of  sunset.  An  hour  afterwards  the  air  is  dry  and 
healthy—  [Is  this  at  La  Cava?  Ba]  This  applies  to  all 
Italy,  and  is  a  precaution  too  often  neglected.  Salerno 
has  bad  air  too  near  it,  to  be  safe  as  a  residence.  Besides, 
it  is  totally  without  the  resources  of  books,  good  food,  or 
medical  advice.  Palermo  would  be  agreeable  in  the  win- 
ter, and  not  very  much  frequented  by  English.  However, 
where  good  climate  exists,  English  are  to  be  found.  Mur- 
ray's '  Southern  Italy  '  would  give  every  particular  as  to 
the  distance  of  La  Cava  from  the  sea.] 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  10,  1846.  ] 

How  I  have  waited  for  your  letter  to-night, — and  it 
comes  nearly  at  ten! — It  comes  at  last — thank  you  for  it, 
ever  dearest. 

And  I  knew — quite  understood  yesterday,  that  you 
were  sorry  for  me,  which  made  you  angry  with  another 
.  .  but,  as  to  poor  Haydon,  you  are  too  generous  and  too 
pitiful  to  refuse  him  any  justice.  I  was  sure  that  the  let- 
ters would  touch  you.  The  particular  letter  about  the 
*  back-ground  '  and  the  '  neglect '  and  Napoleon,  .  .  that, 
you  will  observe,  was  the  last  I  had  from  him.  Every 
word  you  say  of  it,  I  think  and  feel.  Yes,  it  was  just  so ! 
His  conscience  was  not  a  sufficient  witness,  .  .  nor  was 
God.  He  must  also  have  the  Royal  Academy  and  the 
appreciators  of  Tom  Thumb.  A  '  weak  man, '  of  course 
he  was, — for  all  vain  men  are  weak  men.  They  cannot 
stand  alone.  But  that  he  had  in  him  the  elements  of 
greatness — that  he  looked  to  noble  aims  in  art  and  life., 
Vol.  II.— 21 


322   THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBERT  BROWNING    [July  10 

however  distractedly,  .  .  that  his  thoughts  and  feelings 
were  not  those  of  a  common  man,  .  .  it  is  true,  it  is  un- 
deniable,— and  you  would  think  so  more  and  more  if  you 
read  through  the  packets  of  letters  which  I  have  of  his — 
so  fervid,  so  full  of  earnestness  and  individuality  .  .  so 
alive  with  egotism  which  yet  seemed  to  redeem  itself. 
Mr.  Kenyon  said  of  the  letter  we  have  spoken  of,  that  it 
was  scarcely  the  production  of  a  sane  mind.  But  I,  who 
was  used  to  his  letters,  saw  nothing  in  it  in  the  least  un- 
usual— he  has  written  to  me  far  wilder  letters !  That  he 
'  never  should  die, '  he  had  said  once  or  twice  before. 
Then  Napoleon  was  a  favourite  subject  of  his  .  .  con- 
stantly recurred  to.     He  was  not  mad  then ! 

Poor  Hay  don !  Think  what  an  agony,  life  was  to  him, 
so  constituted ! — his  own  genius  a  clinging  curse !  the  fire 
and  the  clay  in  him  seething  and  quenching  one  another ! 
— the  man  seeing  maniacally  in  all  men  the  assassins  of 
his  fame !  and,  with  the  whole  world  against  him,  strug- 
gling for  the  thing  which  was  his  life,  through  night  and 
day,  in  thoughts  and  in  dreams  .  .  struggling,  stifling, 
breaking  the  hearts  of  the  creatures  dearest  to  him,  in  the 
conflict  for  which  there  was  no  victory,  though  he  could 
not  choose  but  fight  it.  Tell  me  if  Laocoon's  anguish  was 
not  as  an  infant's  sleep,  compared  to  this?  And  could  a 
man,  suffering  so,  stop  to  calculate  very  nicely  the  consid- 
eration due  to  A,  and  the  delicacy  which  should  be  ob- 
served toward  B?  Was  he  scrupulously  to  ask  himself 
whether  this  or  that  cry  of  his  might  not  give  C  a  head- 
ache? Indeed  no,  no.  It  is  for  us  rather  to  look  back 
and  consider !     Poor  Hay  don. 

As  to  grief  as  grief — of  course  he  had  no  killing  grief. 
But  he  suffered. 

Often  it  has  struck  me  as  a  curious  thing  (yet  it  is 
not  perhaps  curious)  that  suicides  are  occasioned  nearly 
always  by  a  mortified  self-love  .  .  by  losses  in  money, 
which  force  a  man  into  painful  positions  .  .  and  scarcely 
ever  by  bereavement  through  death  .  .  scarcely  ever.    The 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  323 

wound  on  the  vanity  is  more  irritating  than  the  wound  on 
the  affections — and  the  word  Death,  if  it  does  not  make 
us  recoil  (which  it  does  I  think  sometimes,  .  .  even  from 
the  graves  of  beloved  beings !),  yet  keeps  us  humble  .  . 
casts  us  down  from  our  heights.  We  may  despond,  but 
we  do  not  rebel— we  feel  God  over  us. 

Air — your  poor  gardener !  All  that  hope  is  vain — and 
the  many,  many  hopes  which  in  a  father's  heart  must  have 
preceded  it!     How  sorry  I  am  for  him.1 

You  never  can  have  a  grief,  dearest  dearest,  of  which 
I  shall  not  have  half  for  my  share.  That  is  my  right  from 
henceforth  .  .  and  if  I  could  have  it  all  .  .  loould  I  not, 
do  you  think,  .  .  and  give  my  love  to  you  to  keep  instead? 
Yes,  .  .  indeed  yes!  May  God  bless  you  always.  I  have 
walked  out  to-day,  you  did  me  so  much  good  yesterday. 
As  for  Saturday,  it  certainly  is  our  day,  since  you  are  not 
1  particularly  engaged  '  to  Miss  Campbell.  Saturday,  the 
day  after  to-morrow !  But  the  mules  may  wait  long  at  La 
Cava  for  us,  if  the  tradition,  which  I  sent  you,  is  trust- 
worthy— may  they  not?  I  feel  as  disappointed  .  .  as 
disappointed —  Your  own,  very  own  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  July  10,  1846.] 

And  I  am  disappointed,  dearest,  in  this  news  of  La 
Cava — after  which  it  would  be  madness  to  think  of  going 
there :  the  one  reason  we  have  to  go  at  all  is  simply  for 
your  health — I  mean,  that  if  the  seclusion  were  the  main 
object,  we  might  easily  compass  that  here.  All  places  are 
utterly  indifferent  to  me  if  I  can  inhabit  them  with  you — 
why  should  Palermo  please  me  less  than  Italy  proper? 
The  distance  is  considerable,  however,  and  the  journey 
expensive  —  I  wonder  whether  the  steamer  will  sail  for 
Leghorn  as  last  year.     As  for  the  travelling  English,  they 

1  [Some  months  later  the  discovery  was  made  that  there  had  been  a 
mistake  in  the  War  Office  in  the  name,  and  that  the  son  was  unharmed. 
R.  B.  B.] 


324   THE  LETTEKS  OF  EOBEET  BROWNING   [July  10 

are  horrible,  and  at  Florence,  unbearable  .  .  their  voices 
in  your  ear  at  every  turn  .  .  and  such  voices ! — I  got  to 
very  nearly  hate  the  Tribune  for  their  sakes.  Yietri  is 
close  to  Salerno  and  must  be  obvious  to  the  same  condem- 
nation. Your  friend  speaks  from  personal  experience,  I 
presume — she  may  well  say  that  the  baneful  effects  of  the 
hour  of  sunset  (i.e.  the  Ave-maria)  are  too  much  over- 
looked '  in  all  Italy  ' — I  never  heard  of  them  before — but 
an  infinity  of  '  crotchets '  go  from  Italian  brain  to  brain 
about  what,  in  eating  or  drinking  or  walking  or  sleeping, 
will  be  the  death  of  you :  still,  they  may  know  best.  The 
most  dreadful  event  that  could  happen  to  me  would  be 
your  getting  worse  instead  of  better  .  .  God  knows  what 
I  should  do!  So  whatever  precaution  we  can  take,  let 
us  take. 

Oh,  poor  Flush, — do  you  think  I  do  not  love  and  re- 
spect him  for  his  jealous  supervision, — his  slowness  to 
know  another,  having  once  known  you?  All  my  appre- 
hension is  that,  iu  the  imaginations  down-stairs,  he  may 
very  unconsciously  play  the  part. of  the  dog  that  is  heard 
to  '  bark  violently  '  while  something  dreadful  takes  place : 
yet  I  do  not  sorrow  over  his  slapped  ears,  as  if  they  ever 
pained  him  very  much — you  dear  Ba ! 

And  to-morrow  I  shall  see  you.  Are  you,  can  you  be, 
really  '  better '  after  I  have  seen  you?  If  it  is  not  truth 
.  .  which  I  will  not  say  .  .  such  an  assurance  is  the  most 
consummate  flattery  I  can  imagine  .  .  it  may  be  recorded 
on  my  tombstone  '  E.  B. — to  whom  this  flattery  was  ad- 
dressed, that,  after  the  sight  of  him,  Ba  was  better,  she 
said.'  If  it  is  truth  .  .  may  you  say  that,  neither  more 
nor  less,  day  by  day,  year  by  year  through  our  lives — and 
I  shall  have  lived  indeed ! 

How  it  rains — how  it  varies  from  hot  to  cold !  a  pretty 
vantage-ground  whence  we  English  can  look  and  call  other 
climates  bad  or  indifferent !  Now  if  to-morrow  resembles 
to-day,  will  the  Chiswick  expedition  hold  good?  I  shall 
consider  that  I  may  go  unless  a  letter  comes  to-morrow 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  325 

.  .  which  would  have  to  be  written  to-day.  How  pleasant 
it  would  be  to  make  our  days  always  Wednesday  and  Sat- 
urday .  .  could  not  that  be  contrived?  So  much  for  con- 
siderateness  and  contentedness ! 

I  want,  now,  to  refer  as  little  as  possible  to  the  sad 
subject  .  .  but  I  am  glad  you  have  written, — glad  too 
that  you  are  not  severe  on  me  for  some  hasty  speeches — 
which  did,  indeed,  mean  as  you  say  .  .  vexation  at  your 
having  been  vexed.  And,  I  will  just  add,  you  remark  ex- 
cellently on  the  wound  to  self-love  making  itself  that  rem- 
edy, rather  than  the  wound  to  the  affections  .  ..  yet  there 
are  instances  .  .  Eomilly  loses  his  wife  .  .  so  does  poor 
Laman  Blanchard. 

So  I  go  on  writing,  writing  about  all  but  what  my  heart 
is  full  of !  Let  me  kiss  you,  ever  dearest — to-morrow  will 
soon  arrive — meanwhile,  and  forever  I  am  your  own. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  July  12,  1846.] 

When  I  made  you  promise  to  refer  no  more  to  that 
subject  in  your  letter  (which  I  must  wait  a  day  and  a 
night  for,  alas!),  I  did  not  engage  myself  to  the  like  si- 
lence .  .  perhaps  because  I  was  not  bidden — or,  no !  there 
is  a  better  reason ;  I  want  to  beg  y  our  pardon,  dearest,  for 
all  that  petulancy, — for  the  manner  of  what  I  said  rather 
than  the  matter, — there  is  a  rationality  in  it  all,  if  I  could 
express  trulier  what  I  feel — but  the  manner  was  foolish 
and  wrong  and  unneessary  to  you — so  do  forgive  and  for- 
get it.  You  would  understand  and  sympathize  if  you 
knew — not  me,  whom  you  do  know  in  some  degree, — but 
so  much  of  my  early  life  as  would  account  for  the  actual 
horror  and  hatred  I  have  of  those  particular  doctrines  of 
the  world — and  the  especially  foolish  word  about  the  '  trav- 
elling '  meant  something  like  the  not  unnatural  thought 
that  if  in  this  main,  sole  event  for  all  good  and  all  evil  in 


326   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  12 

my  life, — if  here  the  world  plucked  you  from  me  by  any 
of  the  innumerable  lines  it  casts,  with  that  indirectness, 
too, — then,  I  should  simply  go  and  live  the  rest  of  my 
days  as  far  out  of  it  as  I  could. 

The  simple  thing  to  say  is,  that  I  who  know  you  to  be 
above  me  in  all  great  or  good  feelings  and  therefore  wor- 
ship you,  must  be  without  excuse  to  talk  inconsiderately 
as  if  I,  sitting  by  you  and  speaking  of  the  same  subject, 
must  needs  feel  more  acutely,  more  strongly  in  one  respect 
where,  indeed,  it  wants  very  little  pre-eminence  in  heart 
or  brain  to  feel  entirely  the  truth — a  simplest  of  truths. 
It  would  have  been  laughable  if  I  had  broken  out  on  Mrs. 
Proctor's  bitterness  of  speech,  for  instance  .  .  just  as 
though  you  were  the  slower  of  us  two  to  see  the  nature 
of  it !  So  I  do  again  ask  your  pardon,  dearest  Ba !  You 
said  you  loved  me  no  less  yesterday  than  ever — how  must 
I  love  you  and  press  closer  to  you  more  and  more,  and 
desire  to  see  nothing  of  the  world  behind  you,  when  I  hear 
how  the  world  thinks,  and  how  you  think!  You  only, 
only  adorable  woman,  only  imaginable  love  for  me !  And 
all  the  hastiness  and  petulancy  comes  from  that  .  .  some- 
one seems  to  come  close  (in  every  such  maxim  of  the 
world's)  and  say  '  What  is  she — to  so  much  a  year?  Could 
you  be  happy  with  her  except  in  Mayfair — and  there  whom 
could  you  not  be  happy  with ! ' 

It  is  as  I  expected — Eachel  plays  on  Wednesday  in 
'  Phedre, '  and  our  friend  writes  to  say  he  has  secured 
places.  May  nothing  overcast  the  perfect  three  hours  on 
Tuesday, — those  dear,  dear  spaces  of  dear  brightness — 
why  cannot  a  life  be  made  up  of  these  .  .  with  the  proper 
interposition  of  work,  to  justify  God's  goodness  so  far  as 
poor  mortality  and  its  endeavours  can, — a  week  of  Tues- 
days— then  a  month — a  year — a  life !  I  must  long  to  see 
you  again, — always  by  far  the  most  I  long,  the  next  day — 
the  very  day  after  I  have  seen  you — when  it  is  freshest 
in  my  mind  what  I  did  not  say  while  I  might  have  said 
it, — nor  ask  while  I  might  have  been  answered — nor  learn 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  327 

while  you  would  have  taught  me — no,  it  is  indescribable. 
Did  I  call  yesterday  '  unsatisfactory  '  ?  Would  I  had  it 
back  now !  Or  better,  I  will  wish  you  here  when  I  write, 
with  the  trees  to  see  and  the  birds  to  hear  through  the 
open  window — I  see  you  on  this  old  chair  against  the  pur- 
ple back  .  .  or  shall  you  lie  on  the  sofa?  Ba,  how  I  love 
you,  my  own  perfect  unapproachable  mistress. 

Let  me  kiss  your  feet — and  now  your  hands  and  your 
eyes — and  your  lips  now,  for  the  full  pardon's  sake,  my 
sweetest  love — 

Ever  your  own — 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday.    6  p.m. 
[Post-mark,  July  13,  1846.] 

Ever,  ever  dearest,  I  have  to  feel  for  you  all  through 
Sunday,  and  I  hear  no  sound  and  see  no  light.  How  are 
you?  how  did  you  get  home  yesterday?  I  thought  of  you 
more  than  usual  after  you  went,  if  I  did  not  love  you  as 
much  as  usual  .  .  .  What  could  that  doubt  have  been 
made  of? 

Dearest,  I  had  a  letter  last  night  from  Mrs.  Jameson, 
who  says  that  on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday  at  about  four 
o'clock  (though  she  is  as  little  sure  of  the  hour  apparently 
as  of  the  day),  she  means  to  come  to  see  me.  Now  you 
are  to  consider  whether  this  grand  peutdtre  will  shake  our 
Tuesday,  .  .  whether  you  would  rather  take  Thursday 
instead,  or  will  run  the  risk  as  it  appears.  I  am  ready  to 
agree,  either  way.  She  is  the  most  uncertain  of  uncertain 
people,  and  may  not  come  at  all  ..  it's  a  case  for  what 
Hume  used  to  call  sceptical  scepticism.  Judge!  Then 
I  have  heard  (I  forgot  to  tell  you)  from  Mr.  Home — and 
.  .  did  you  have  two  letters  last  week  from  your  Bennet? 
.  .  because  /  had, — flying  leaves  of  'Mignonette,'  and 
other  lyrical  flowers. 

When  you  had  gone  Arabel  came  to  persuade  me  to  go 


328   THE  LETTEES  OF  KOBERT  BROWNING    [July  13 

to  the  park  in  a  cab,  notwithstanding  my  too  lively  recol- 
lections of  the  last  we  chanced  upon, — and  I  was  per- 
suaded, and  so  we  tumbled  one  over  another  (yet  not  all 
those  cabs  are  so  rough !)  to  the  nearest  gate  opening  on 
the  grass,  and  got  out  and  walked  a  little.  A  lovely  even- 
ing it  was,  but  I  wished  somehow  rather  to  be  at  home, 
and  Flush  had  his  foot  pinched  in  shutting  the  cab-door, 
.  .  and  altogether  there  was  not  much  gain: — only,  as  for 
Flush's  foot,  though  he  cried  piteously  and  held  it  up, 
looking  straight  to  me  for  sympathy,  no  sooner  had  he 
touched  the  grass  than  he  began  to  run  without  a  thought 
of  it.  Flush  always  makes  the  most  of  his  misfortunes — 
he  is  of  the  Byronic  school — il  se  pose  en  victime. 

Now  I  will  not  write  any  more— I  long  to  have  my  let- 
ter of  to-morrow  morning — I  long  to  have  it  .  .  Shall  I 
not  have  it  to-morrow  morning?  This  is  posted  by  my 
hand. 

I  loved  you  yesterday  .  .  I  love  you  to-day  .  .  I  shall 
love  you  to-morrow. 

Every  day  I  am  yours. 

Ba. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  July  13,  1846.] 

My  own  Ba,  your  letter  kisses  me  in  its  entire  kind- 
ness— and  I  kiss  it  and  you. — Mrs.  Jameson  may  come 
or  keep  away  .  .  (since  you  let  me  speak  and  decide, 
which  is  like  you)  .  .  she  may  appoint  and  reappoint,  but 
Tuesday  was  given  me  and  I  will  have  it  if  her  visit  is  the 
only  obstacle — for  what  was  all  the  confessing  worth  if  not 
to  account  for  such  a  phenomenon  as  my  presence  in  your 
room  when  by  any  chance  she  might  discover  it?  Beside, 
as  you  say,  she  is  the  most  uncertain  of  engagement-hold- 
ers .  .  no,  indeed, — no  Tuesday  ought  to  be  given  up  for 
her!    Therefore,  unless  fresh  orders  arrive, — at  three  on 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  329 

Tuesday  .  .  which  is  happily,  happily  to-morrow!  You 
are  my  own  sweetest  to  reach  a  letter  to  me  with  your  own 
hand,  as  you  tell  me, — and  the  drive,  and  the  walk  to  the 
Post  Office — thank  you,  Ba !  Perhaps  .  .  dare  I  say  .  . 
you  will  answer  that  letter  I  sent  yesterday  .  .  because 
now  I  remember  there  is  no  prayer  at  the  end  to  prevent 
you  .  .  that  is,  from  answering  the  main  part  of  it — the 
reverting  &c. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  Home,  but  shall  not  hear  from  him — 
on  Saturday  I  wrote.  And  Mr.  Bennett's  two  letters  are 
considerately  written, — directed,  I  mean, — in  a  hand  and 
with  a  blue  ink  that  I  recognise, — consequently  the  con- 
tents give  me  no  trouble.  I  wrote  two  or  three  lines  to 
the  'year  of  the  world'  poet, — did  you  take  the  pains? 
Once  on  a  time  some  unknown  author  sent  me  a  Tragedy, 
'  not  published, '  called  '  Alessandro  de'  Medici, '  with  some 
striking  scenes  .  .  I  wonder  who  could  be  the  writer — did 
it  ever  fall  in  your  way? 

.  .  As  if  I  care ! — can  I  care  about  anything  that  is  not 
Ba?  All  else  seems  as  idle  as  .  .  as, — now  you  shall 
have  a  real  instance  in  point — as  my  dream  last  night. 
This  morning  at  breakfast  my  mother  asked  me,  the  first 
thing,  what  could  so  amuse  me  as  to  make  me  call  loudly 
'  Bravo '  again  and  again,  with  abundance  of  laughter? 
(My  room  is  next  to  hers  and  the  door  is  left  ajar). 
Whereupon  I  tried  to  recall  my  dream — and  all  that  I  can 
seize  is  a  passage  through  a  gallery  of  Hay  don's  pictures, 
one  of  which  was  a  portrait  of  his  wife ;  nor  did  a  suspi- 
cion once  cross  my  mind  that  the  artist  was  not  well  and 
working  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  all  the  time — How 
strange !  I  never  dream  if  quite  well — and  I  suppose  the 
present  state  of  my  head  just  amounts  to  not  being  quite 
well.  (It  is  better  at  any  rate,  and  to-morrow — ought  to 
be  worse,  that — Ba  may  prove  her  potency  as  of  old). 

Now  I  will  kiss  you  and  wait  as  well  as  I  can  till  the 
full  blessing.     Dearest — dearest  I  am  your  own — 


330   THE  LETTEBS  OE  EOBEBT  BBOWNING  [July  14 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

j..  Monday,  Morning. 

[Post-mark,  July  14,  1846.] 

I  must  write  .  .  even  if  you  come  to-morrow.  Dear- 
est, if  I  told  you  all  that  nonsense  on  Saturday,  it  was 
for  the  sake  of  telling  you  all  and  of  hearing  you  say 
'  What  nonsense  '  afterwards.  I  never  began  by  disguis- 
ing anything  from  you  .  .  did  I?  I  always  wished  you 
to  see  how  the  arrows  would  strike  out  at  us  from  that 
bush  and  this  bush.  At  ns.  For,  granting  that  you  seri- 
ously thought  it  possible  for  such  motives  to  divide  me 
from  you,  .  .  .  ah,  granting  it,  .  .  and  you  may  ivell  ask 
my  pardon  ! 

The  world !  the  world  could  as  soon  catch  me  with  a 
'  line '  so  baited,  as  you  could  catch  a  trout  with  a  silver 
sixpence  at  the  end  of  a  string.  Not  only  do  I  think  with 
you  entirely  on  that  subject,  but  I  always  thought  like 
you.  Always  I  have  hated  all  their  worldly  systems,  and 
not  merely  now,  and  since  I  have  loved  you.  With  a  hun- 
dred a  year  between  us,  I  would  have  married  you,  if  you 
had  not  been  afraid.  And  so,  think  whether  directly  or 
'  indirectly  '  I  am  likely  to  be  frightened  into  the  breach 
of  an  engagement  by  what  I  repeated  to  you  or  by  what 
is  like  unto  it.  No — my  weaknesses  are  of  a  different 
class  altogether. 

The  talk  I  talked  over  again  to  you,  seemed  to  burn  in 
my  ears  the  longer  on  that  Saturday,  because,  while  it  was 
being  originally  talked  between  Papa  and  my  aunt  (touch- 
ing Arabella  Hedley's  marriage),  he  had  brought  a  paper 
for  me  to  sign  about  some  money  placed  on  a  railway,  (not 
speculatively)  .  .  and  my  aunt,  by  way  of  saying  a  lively 
thing,  exclaimed,  '  Is  that  your  marriage-settlement,  my 
dear?  '  .  .  which  made  me  so  nervous  that  I  wrote  my 
name  wrong  and  vexed  Papa  into  being  almost  cross  with 
me.  So  one  word  got  entwined  with  another,  and  all 
seemed  to  hang  around  me— Do  you  understand? 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  331 

But  you  do  not,  how  you  pained  me  when  you  said  that. 
Ah — I  thought  I  saw  you  gone  .  .  '  so  far,  so  far,'  as  you 
said  .  .  and  myself  left. 

Yet  I  should  deserve  it  of  course,  if  I  were  to  give  you 
up  for  the  sake  of  that !  .  .  or  for  any  other  motive,  .  . 
except  your  advantage  .  .  your  own.  I  should  deserve 
everything  in  such  a  case,  but  should  feel  nothing  .  .  not 
even  my  punishment.     Could  I?  .  .  being  ivithout  a  heart? 

Ah — after  all  my  mistrust,  did  I  ever  mistrust  you  so  ? 
I  have  doubted  your  power  to  love  me  as  you  believed  you 
loved  me,  perhaps — but  your  will  to  be  true  to  one  you 
loved,  without  reference  to  worldly  influences,  I  never 
doubted,  nor  could.  I  think  I  will  let  you  beg  my  par- 
don; you  unjust,  dearest  .  . 

To  so  much  over-praise,  there  should  be  a  little  wrong- 
ing, too  .  .  and  therefore  you  are  not,  after  all,  '  unjust ' 
.  .  only  '  dearest '!.... 

Such  a  letter,  besides,  you  have  written,  .  .  and  there 
are  two  of  them  to-day  !  You  will  not  go  from  me,  I  think, 
'  so  far,  so  far. '  You  will  not  leave  me  behind,  with  the 
harpoon  in  me,  to  make  red  the  salt  wilderness  of  waters. 

Altogether,  then,  I  forgive  you,  Robert — and  it  is  glori- 
ous for  me  to  have  something  to  forgive  you  for,  who  are 
the  best  so  oat  of  measure ! —     I  seize  the  opportunity. 

And  you  come  to-morrow !  Which  is  right  .  .  right ! 
I  was  afraid  that  you  would  not  come — •  And  Mrs.  Jame- 
son is  perfectly  uncertain  as  you  may  read  in  this  new 
note  which  reached  me  with  yours  to-night. 

All  the  Hedleys  have  dined  here.  To-morrow  will  be 
clear  of  them  .  .  pure  of  them,  I  was  going  to  write  .  . 
but  I  thought  of  Mrs.  Hedley's  beaming  affectionate  face 
.  .  (so  still  lovely,  she  looked  this  evening,  when  she  came 
upstairs  to  kiss  me !)  .  .  and  could  not  say  such  a  wrong- 
ing word.     You  would  like  her — you  could  not  help  it. 

I  was  in  the  carriage  to-day  in  Oxford  Street  .  .  and  a 
sealed  letter  was  thrown  exactly  at  my  head,  my  aunt  and 
cousin  and  Henrietta  being  with  me — a  sealed  letter  sealed 


332   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  14 

with  arms  (not  of  Agincourt !)  and  directed  '  For  your 
perusal. '  Guess  the  meaning  of  that ! — why  just  a  tract 
by  the  Eev.  Villiers  of  that  parish,  upon  the  enormous 
wickedness  of  frequenting  plays  and  balls !  Perhaps  I 
looked  as  if  my  soul  had  entered  into  the  secret  of  the 
Polka-dancers! — who  can  say? 

So,  good-night,  dearest  dearest ! — 

I  cannot  give  myself  again  to  .you, 

being  your  own. 

Of  course  this  was  written  with  the  poker,  as  you  will 
see  by  the  calligraphy. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  July  15,  1846.] 

And  is  it  true  of  to-day  as  you  said  it  would  be,  ever 
dearest,  that  you  wish  to  be  with  me?  Let  me  have  the 
comfort,  or  luxury  rather,  of  the  thought  of  it,  before  to- 
morrow takes  you  a  step  farther  off. 

At  dinner  my  aunt  said  to  Papa  .  .  '  I  have  not  seen 
Ba  all  day — and  when  I  went  to  her  room,  to  my  astonish- 
ment a  gentleman  was  sitting  there. '  '  Who  was  that  ?  ' 
said  Papa's  eyes  to  Arabel —  '  Mr.  Browning  called  here 
to-day, '  she  answered —  'And  Ba  bowed  her  head, '  con- 
tinued my  aunt,  '  as  if  she  meant  to  signify  to  me  that  I 
was  not  to  come  in ' —  '  Oh, '  cried  Henrietta,  '  that  must 
have  been  a  mistake  of  yours.  Perhaps  she  meant  just 
the  contrary.'  'You  should  have  gone  in,'  Papa  said, 
'  and  seen  the  poet. '  Now  if  she  really  were  to  do  that 
the  next  time !—  Yet  I  did  not,  you  know,  make  the  ex- 
pelling gesture  she  thought  she  saw.  Simply  I  was  star- 
tled. As  to  Saturday  we  must  try  whether  we  cannot  de- 
fend the  position  .  .  set  the  guns  against  the  approaches 
to  right  and  left  .  .  we  must  try. 

In  speaking  too  of  your  visit  this  morning,  Stormy  said 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  333 

to  her  .  .  'Oh  Mr.  Browning  is  a  great  friend  of  Ba's! 
He  comes  here  twice  a  week — is  it  twice  a  week  or  once, 
Arabel?  ' 

While  I  write,  the  Hedley  s  come — and  Mrs.  Hedley  is 
beseeching  me  into  seeing  Mr.  Bevan,  whom  perhaps  I 
must  see,  notwithstanding  Flush's  wrongs. 

By  the  way,  I  made  quite  clear  to  Flush  that  you  left 
the  cakes,  and  they  were  very  graciously  received  indeed. 

Dearest,  since  the  last  word  was  written,  Mrs.  Hedley 
came  back  leading  Mr.  Bevan,  and  Papa  who  had  just  en- 
tered the  room  found  the  door  shut  upon  him  .  .  I  was 
nervous  .  .  oh,  so  nervous!  and  the  six  feet,  and  some- 
thing more,  of  Mr.  Bevan  seemed  to  me  as  if  they  never 
would  end,  so  tall  the  man  is.  Well — and  he  sate  down 
by  me  according  to  my  aunt's  arrangement;  and  I,  who 
began  to  talk  a  thousand  miles  from  any  such  subject,  with 
a  good  reason  for  the  precaution,  found  myself  thrown 
head-foremost  into  ecclesiastical  architecture  at  the  close 
of  about  three  minutes — how  he  got  there  all  his  saints 
know  best !  It's  his  subject  .  .  par  excellence.  He  talks 
to  Arabella  about  arches  and  mullions — he  can't  talk  of 
anything  else,  I  suspect.  And  because  the  Trinity  is  ex- 
pressed in  such  a  form  of  church-building,  the  altar  at  the 
east,  and  the  baptistery  at  the  door,  .  .  there's  no  other 
lawful  form  of  a  church,  none  at  all !  Not  that  he  has  an 
opinion!  he  'adopts  opinions,'  but  would  not  think  for 
himself  for  the  world  at  the  risk  of  ultimate  damnation ! 
Which  was  the  amount  of  his  talk  to-day  .  .  and  really  it 
does  not  strike  me  as  wisdom,  now  that  I  set  it  down  so. 
Yet  the  man  expressed  himself  well  and  has  a  sensible 
face — he  is  a  clever  third-class  man,  I  think — better  than 
the  mass  for  sense,  but  commonplace  essentially.  Only, 
inasmuch  as  ecclesiastical  architecture  is  not  my  subject, 
I  may  think  otherwise  of  him  when  I  know  him  otherwise. 
I  do  not  dislike  him  now.  And  then  I  am  conscious  how 
you  spoil  me  for  common  men,  dearest!  It  is  scarcely 
fair  on  them. 


334   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  15 

My  aunt  (Mrs.  Hedley)  said  when  she  introduced  him: 
'  You  are  to  understand  this  to  be  a  great  honour — for  she 
never  lets  anybody  come  here  except  Mr.  Kenyon,  .  .  and 
a  few  other  gentlemen'  .  .  .  (laughing).  Said  Papa — 
'  Only  one  other  gentleman,  indeed.  Only  Mr.  Browning, 
the  poet — the  man  of  the  pomegranates. '  Was  that  likely 
to  calm  me,  do  you  think?  How  late  it  is — I  must  break 
off.     To-night  I  shall  write  again.     Dearest  beloved, 

I  am  your  own  always. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  July  15,  1846.] 

Dearest  Ba,  I  am  anxious  to  know  what  cannot  yet  be 
told  me,  how  that  unforseen  visit  has  worked — tell  me  the 
moment  you  can, — and  fully,  whatever  happens. 

'  Suspicious  ' — anything  in  the  world  rather  than  that, 
you  are !  When  you  have  mistrusted  your  own  power  over 
me,  I  believed  always  in  the  mistrust  .  .  which,  indeed, 
matters  little  except  to  yourself.  For  if  I  would,  certainly, 
have  the  truth  seen  as  the  truth,  and  our  true  position 
understood, — yet  .  .  there  is, — ought  I  not  to  be  ashamed 
at  saying? — an  exquisite,  final  grace  and  endearingness  in 
the  ignorance,  strange  as  I  must  account  it.  You  doubly 
trust  me,  — with  the  treasure,  and  then,  with  the  knowledge 
that  it  is  a  treasure,  or  such  a  treasure. 

Ba,  when  I  think  of  it  all,  my  whole  heart  becomes  one 
gratitude  to  you, — I  am  only  yours,  grateful  for  ever.  It 
is  the  only  kind  of  thoughts  in  which  you  shall  not  share 
(there  are  many  in  which  you  cannot)  the  thoughts  to  my 
inmost  self  as  I  go  over  what  you  say  and  do  and  try  to 
clear  up  to  myself  the  precise  fascination  in  each  :  you 
shall  not  know  what  you  do  .  .  but  shall  continue  to  do 
and  to  let  me  know.  I  love  you  entirely.  Wliere  can  you 
change  so  that  I  shall  not  love  you  more  and  more  as  I 
grow  more  able  and  worthier?    I  cannot  sit  for  twenty-four 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEKETT  335 

hours  by  you  as  I  sit  for  three — as  it  is,  I  take  myself  to 
task  for  not  doing  something  here  at  home  to  justify  in 
some  measure  my  privilege  and  blessing — and  the  only 
thing  that  keeps  conscience  quiet  comparatively  is  .  .  the 
old  expedient  that  the  Future  engages  to  do  for  me  what 
the  Present  cannot.  Under  your  eyes,  I  will  hope  to 
work  and  attain  your  approval.  I  know  that  when  you 
were  only  the  great  Poet  and  not  my  Ba,  I  would  have 
preferred  your  praise,  as  competent  to  praise,  to  that  of 
the  whole  world — I  remember  distinctly,  and  know  I 
should  have  done  so.  And  now  if  I  put  aside  the  Poet 
and  only  (what  an  '  only ')  see  my  dearest,  dearest  lady 
of  that  hair  and  eyes,  and  hands,  and  voice,  and  all  the 
completeness  that  was  trusted  to  my  arms  yesterday — why 
I  feel  that  if  she,  never  having  written  a  line,  said  '  What 
Miss  Barrett  may  think  I  do  not  know,  but  /  am  content 
with  what  you  show  me' — then,  dearest,  should  not  I  be 
content — ? 

I  called  on  Moxon — and  called  at  Carlyle's  to  no  pur- 
pose. He  was  out,  and  will  leave  town  (said  the  servant) 
next  Saturday.  Mrs.  Carlyle  has  already  left  it.  So,  no 
Bag  Fair  for  the  present,  or  probably  ever !  This  was  my 
fault, — I  having  let  several  Sundays  go  by— I  must  write 
to  Mr.  Kenyon  and  try  if  he  will  come  on  his  own  account. 
Moxon  tells  me  that  he  has  sold  fifteen  hundred  of  Tenny- 
son's Poems  in  a  year — and  is  about  to  print  another  edi- 
tion in  consequence.  If  that  is  the  case,  and  Tennyson 
gets,  say,  only  half  a  crown  by  the  sale  of  each  copy, 
expenses  deducted,  he  will  have  received  178?., — little 
enough,  as  payments  are  made  to  Pw^cA-literature,  but 
enough  to  live  upon,  whatever  the  awful  fiat  decides ! 
Tennyson  '  is  going  '  to  Switzerland  presently  with  Moxon 
— but  is  liable  to  fits  of  indecision.  He  did  talk  of  going 
to  Italy  (of  course),  but  the  other  day,  time  being  up,  his 
brother  was  forced  to  proceed  alone.  Moxon  is  coming 
here  first. 

Now  I  will  kiss  you,  dearest,  and  hope  that  Wimpole 


336   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [July  15 

Street  stands  where  it  did,  unhurt  by  explosions  of  any- 
kind.  I  have  got  a  letter  from  Procter  asking  me  to  go 
to-day,  which  I  cannot  do.     Ever  your  own,  very  own  It. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  16,  1846.] 

Well !  I  anticipated  your  asking,  I  think,  and  told  you 
fully  this  morning.  It  was  a  chronicle  I  sent  you,  rather 
than  a  letter.  And  nothing  is  left  to  tell  you — for  I  did 
not  go  out  all  day  .  .  nor  yesterday.  Which  was  wrong. 
But  I  had  visitor  on  visitor  to-day,  .  .  my  old  maid  com- 
ing to  bring  me  her  baby  to  look  at,  to  Flush's  infinite 
delight.  Whenever  she  comes  he  devotes  himself  to  her, 
stays  with  her  downstairs,  lies  on  the  corner  of  her  gown, 
and,  for  the  most  part,  forbears  going  to  sleep.  To-morrow 
I  mean  to  go  out  .  .  to-morrow, — when  you  are  beginning 
to  think  rather  less  of  me. 

Isn't  it  ungrateful  of  me?     I  think  so. 

I  am  glad,  at  least,  that  I  do  not  appear  to  you '  sus- 
picious.' Because  I  dislike  suspicious  people  myself,  and 
it  has  struck  me  often  in  the  midst  of  the  dislike  .  .  '  That 
is  how  I  must  appear  to  him.''  Ah — but  you  are  too  indul- 
gent to  me,  my  own  dearest  .  .  too  dearest !  .  .  .  and  you 
draw  crooked  inferences  for  me,  shutting  both  the  eyes  .  . 
the  near-sighted  eye  and  far-sighted  eye.  Or  is  it,  in  that 
strange  sight  of  yours,  that  I  walk  between  the  far  and  the 
near  objects,  in  an  invisible  security?  Or  is  it  (which  were 
best)  that  I  am  too  near  to  be  seen  even  by  the  near-sighted 
eye,  .  .  like  a  hand  brought  close  to  the  eyelashes,  which, 
for  over-closeness,  nobody  can  see?  Let  me  be  too  near  to 
be  seen — always  too  near! — dearest,  dearest!  Never  will 
I  complain  that  you  do  not  see  me !     Be  sure  of  that,  now. 

Once  I  used  to  be  more  uneasy,  and  to  think  that  I 
ought  to  make  you  see  me.  But  Love  is  better  than  Sight, 
and  Love  will  do  without  Sight.     Which  I  did  not  under- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  337 

stand  at  first.  I  knew  it  was  enough  for  me,  that  you 
should  love  me.  That  it  was  enough  for  you,  I  had  to 
learn  afterwards. 

And  '  Grateful '  is  my  word  and  not  yours.  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you,  if  to  owe  you  all  the  sense  of  life,  all  the  re- 
newal of  hope,  all  the  possibility  of  happiness  .  .  if  to  owe 
these  things  to  another,  consciously,  feelingly,  shall  pass 
for  gratitude,  .  .  then  Jam  grateful  to  you,  Robert.  Do 
you  not  know  it,  that  I  should  say  it  again?  For  me,  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  can  do  nothing  in  return.  To  love 
you !    Why  no  woman  in  the  world  could  do  less. 

I  am  glad,  both  for  the  public  and  Tennyson,  that  his 
poems  sell  so  well — and  presently  you  will  do  as  well  or 
better — and  I,  half  as  well  perhaps ;  so  that  we  shall  be 
too  rich,  which  will  spoil  it  all  .  .  won't  it? 

Mr.  Home  sent  me  the  Daily  News  to-day,  .  .  the 
number  containing  his  verses  on  Hay  don  .  .  and  I  cut 
from  it  an  advertisement,  for  the  purpose  of  bidding  you 
observe  that  the  land  journe}r,  or  river-voyage,  is  very 
much  cheaper  than  the  sea-voyage  by  the  steamers — un- 
less the  direct  vessel  to  Leghorn  should  go  as  last  year, 
and  I  fear  it  will  not.  The  steamer-charges  of  the  Oriental 
company  are  immense.  Nineteen  guineas  to  Gibraltar 
even!  Twenty-eight,  I  think,  to  Naples.  As  for  the  ad- 
vertisement, I  send  it  only  for  what  it  suggests.  And 
there  is  time  enough  for  calculations,  all  ways  suggestible. 

May  God  bless  you,  dear,  dear!  How  is  the  head? 
shall  it  be  better,  without  me,  until  Saturday?  Say  how 
it  is. 

Among  all  my  visitors,  the  only  one  I  expected,  never 
came!    No  Mrs.  Jameson  again  to-day ! — 

Dearest,  I  am  your  very  own 

Ba. 


Vol.  II.— 22 


838   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  16 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

p. 

Thursday 
[Post-mark,  July  16,  1846.] 

I  should  be  doing  your  own  dear  face  (which  I  see  so 
perfectly  through  the  distance) — too  great  a  wrong  if  I  so 
much  as  answered  the  charge  of  '  not  remembering. '  I 
see  the  face  smile  above  the  hand  that  writes !  As  if  one 
may  not  say  that  a  division,  a  wound,  smarts  more  on  the 
first  day,  and  aches  more  on  the  next !  As  if  I  do  not  pre- 
fer the  fresh  sharp  regret  to  the  settling  of  .  .  what  I  trust 
in  God  and  you  I  never  shall  feel !  However,  if  it  will 
please  you  to  know,  I  do  feel  to-day  as  earnest  a  longing 
to  be  with  you  again  as  if  your  two  letters  were  not  here, 
— as  if  Tuesday  lay  only  an  hour  behind  instead  of  the 
two  long  days ! 

I  think  your  Father's  words  on  these  two  occasions, 
very  kind, — very!  They  confuse, — perhaps  humble  me  .  . 
that  is  not  the  expression,  but  it  may  stay.  I  dare  say  he 
is  infinitely  kind  at  bottom — I  think  so,  that  is,  on  my 
own  account, — because,  come  what  will  or  may,  I  shall 
never  see  otherwise  than  with  your  sight.  If  he  could 
know  me,  I  think  he  would  soon  reconcile  himself  to  all 
of  it, — know  my  heart's  purposes  toward  you.  But  that 
is  impossible — and  with  the  sincere  will  to  please  him  by 
any  exertion  or  sacrifice  in  my  power,  I  shall  very  likely 
never  have  the  opportunity  of  picking  up  a  glove  he  might 
drop.  In  old  novels,  the  implacable  father  is  not  seldom 
set  upon  by  a  round  dozen  of  ruffians  with  blacked  faces 
from  behind  a  hedge, — and  just  as  the  odds  prove  too 
many,  suddenly  a  stranger  (to  all  save  the  reader)  leaps 
over  an  adjacent  ditch,  &c  '  Sir,  under  Providence,  I  owe 
you  my  life ! '  &c  &e  How  does  Dumas  improve  on  this 
in  '  Monte  Cristo  ' — are  there  '  new  effects?  '  Absurdity ! 
Yet  I  would  fain  .   .  fain !  you  understand. 

To  talk  about  my  '  spoiling  you  for  other  conversers ' 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  339 

is  .  .  oh,  leap  over  hedge  and  ditch,  somebody,  to  the 
rescue !  If  I  praise  myself  for  anything  in  our  intimacy 
it  is  that  I  never  .  .  but  I  won't  go  into  it.  And  putting 
my  own  experience  aside  and  in  its  place,  it  strikes  me 
that  what  Ba  ranks  as  a  '  third-rate  man  '  may  pass  justly 
for  a  paragon  and  marvel  among  men  as  the  world  has  a 
right  to  class  them.  I  am  quite  sure  if  I  had  been  pres- 
ent and  much  had  uttered  itself  about  mullions  .  .  some- 
body would  have  looked  a  very  babe  in  knowledge,  and 
perhaps  made  Ba  blush  for  him  and  her  own  waste  of  love 
and  praise —  So  he  retreats  where  he  may  keep  it  all  in 
virtue  of  being  what  he  is,  ever  is,  and  shall  be,  her  own  E. 

The  river-voyage  is  not  only  the  cheaper  but  by  far  the 
more  interesting  .  .  all  to  consider  is  the  fatigue  to  you; 
what  else? 

I  am  very  well  to-day.  Kachel's  '  Phedre  '  was  admir- 
able last  night;  quite  through  Bacine  up  to  Euripides — the 
declaration-scene  with  Hippoly  tus  exquisite  .  .  I  must  tell 
you— 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  July  17,  1846.] 

Dearest,  if  you  feel  that,  must  I  not  feel  it  more  deeply? 
Twice  or  three  times  lately  he  has  said  to  me  '  my  love ' 
and  even  '  my  puss, '  his  old  words  before  he  was  angry 
last  year,  .  .  and  I  quite  quailed  before  them  as  if  they 
were  so  many  knife-strokes.  Anything  but  his  kindness, 
I  can  bear  now. 

Yet  I  am  glad  that  you  feel  that  .  .  The  difficulty,  (al- 
most the  despair !)  has  been  with  me,  to  make  you  under- 
stand the  two  ends  of  truth  .  .  both  that  he  is  not  stone 
.  .  and  that  he  is  immovable  as  stone.  Perhaps  only  a 
very  peculiar  nature  could  have  held  so  long  the  position 
he  holds  in  his  family.  His  hand  would  not  lie  so  heav- 
ily, without  a  pulse  in  it.  Then  he  is  upright — faithful 
to  his  conscience.     You  would  respect  him,  .  .  and  love 


340  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  17 

him  perhaps  in  the  end.  For  me,  he  might  have  been 
king  and  father  over  me  to  the  end,  if  he  had  thought  it 
worth  while  to  love  me  openly  enough — yet,  even  so,  he 
should  not  have  let  you  come  too  near.  And  you  could 
not  (so)  have  come  too  near — for  he  would  have  had  my 
confidence  from  the  beginning,  and  no  opportunity  would 
have  been  permitted  to  you  of  proving  your  affection  for 
me,  and  I  should  have  thought  always  what  I  thought  at 
first.  So  the  nightshade  and  the  eglantine  are  twisted, 
twined,  one  in  the  other,  .  .  and  the  little  pink  roses  lean 
up  against  the  pale  poison  of  the  berries — we  cannot  tear 
this  from  that,  let  us  think  of  it  ever  so  much ! 

We  must  be  humble  and  beseeching  afterwards  at  least, 
and  try  to  get  forgiven —  Poor  Papa !  I  have  turned  it 
over  and  over  in  my  mind,  whether  it  would  be  less  offen- 
sive, less  shocking  to  him,  if  an  application  were  made  first. 
If  I  were  strong,  I  think  I  should  incline  to  it  at  all  risks 
— but  as  it  is,  .  .  it  might  .  .  would,  probably,  .  .  take 
away  the  power  of  action  from  me  altogether.  We  should 
be  separated,  you  see,  from  that  moment,  .  .  hindered 
from  writing  .  .  hindered  from  meeting  .  .  and  I  could 
evade  nothing,  as  I  am — not  to  say  that  I  should  have 
fainting  fits  at  every  lifting  of  his  voice,  through  that  in- 
convenient nervous  temperament  of  mine  which  has  so 
often  made  me  ashamed  of  myself.  Then  .  .  the  posi- 
tive disobedience  might  be  a  greater  offence  than  the  un- 
authorised act.  I  shut  my  eyes  in  terror  sometimes.  May 
God  direct  us  to  the  best. 

Oh — do  not  write  about  this,  dearest,  dearest? —  I 
throw  myself  out  of  it  into  the  pure,  sweet,  deep  thought 
of  you  .  .  which  is  the  love  of  you  always.  I  am  yours 
.  .  your  own.  I  never  doubt  of  being  yours.  I  feel  too 
much  yours.  It  is  might  and  right  together.  You  are 
more  to  me,  beside,  than  the  whole  world. 

Write  nothing  of  this,  dearest  of  all ! — it  is  of  no  use. 
To-day  .  .  this  morning  .  .  I  went  out  in  the  carriage, 
and  we  drove  round  the  Park;  and  Mrs.  Jameson  did  not 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  341 

come  afterward.  Will  she  put  it  off  till  Saturday?  I 
have  heard  nothing  against  Saturday,  by  the  way,  worse 
than  that  conjecture  of  mine. 

And  I  have  written  you,  perhaps,  a  teazing,  painful 
letter  .  .  I,  who  love  you  to-day  '  as  much  as  ever.'  It  is 
my  destiny,  I  sometimes  think,  to  torment  you.  And  let 
me  say  what  I  will,  remember  how  nothing  that  I  say  can 
mean  a  doubt — you  never  shall  have  reason  to  reproach  me 
for  the  falseness  of  cowardice — that  double  falseness  .  . 
both  to  me  and  to  you.  Only  I  wish  this  were  Christmas- 
Day,  and  we  .  .  .  even  at  Salerno  .  .  in  the  '  bad  air ' ! 
There's  no  harm  in  such  a  wish — now  is  there? 

Ever  and  ever  I  am  your  own 

Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  July  17,   1846. J 

Did  you  ever  see  a  more  uncongenial,  colourless  day 
than  this — that  brings  me  no  letter!  I  do  not  despair 
yet,  however — there  will  be  a  post  presently.  When  I  am 
without  the  sight  of  you,  and  the  voice  of  you,  which  a 
letter  seems  .  .  I  feel  very  accurately  the  justice  of  that 
figure  by  which  I  am  represented  as  '  able  to  leave  you 
alone — leaving  you  and  following  my  pleasure  elsewhere ' 
— so  you  have  written  and  spoken !  Well,  to-day,  I  may 
follow  my  pleasures. 

I  will  follow  you,  Ba, — the  thoughts  of  you,  and  long 
for  to-morrow. 

No  letter  for  me, — the  time  is  past.  If  you  are  well, 
my  own  Ba,  I  will  not  mind  .  .  more  than  I  can.  You 
had  not  been  out  for  two  days — the  wind  is  high,  too. 
May  God  keep  you  at  all  times,  ever  dearest! 

The  sun  shines  again — now  I  will  hope  to  hear  at  six 
o'clock. 

I  can  tell  you  nothing  better,  I  think,  than  this  I  heard 


342   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [July  17 

from  Moxon  the  other  day  .  .  it  really  ought  to  be  remem- 
bered. Moxon  was  speaking  of  critics,  the  badness  of  their 
pay,  how  many  pounds  a  column  the  Times  allowed,  and 
shillings  the  Athenaeum, — and  of  the  inevitable  effects  on 
the  performances  of  the  poor  fellows.  '  How  should  they 
be  at  the  trouble  of  reading  any  difficult  book  so  as  to  re- 
view it, — Landor,  for  instance?'  and  indeed  a  friend  of 
my  own  has  promised  to  write  a  notice  in  the  Times — but 
he  complains  bitterly, — he  shall  have  to  read  the  book, — 
he  can  do  no  less, — and  all  for  five  or  ten  pounds  ' !  All 
which  Moxon  quite  seemed  to  understand — '  it  will  really 
take  him  some  three  or  four  mornings  to  read  enough  of 
Landor  to  be  able  to  do  anything  effectually.'  I  asked 
if  there  had  been  any  notices  of  the  Book  already — '  Just 
so  many,'  he  said,  'as  Forster  had  the  power  of  getting 
done ' —  Mr.  White,  a  clergyman,  has  written  a  play  for 
Macready,  which  everybody  describes  as  the  poorest  stuff 
imaginable, — it  is  immediately  reviewed  in  Blackwood  and 
the  Edinburgh  '  Because '  continues  M,  '  he  is  a  Blackwood 
reviewer,  and  may  do  the  like  good  turn  to  any  of  the 
confraternity.' 

So — here  I  will  end, — wanting  to  come  to  the  kissing 
dearest  Ba,  and  bidding  her  remember  to-morrow  how  my 
heart  sinks  to-day  in  the  silence. 

Ever,  dearest  dearest,  your  very  own. 


K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  July  18,  1846.] 

It  is  out  of  time  to-night  to  write  to  you,  since  to-mor- 
row we  are  to  meet — but  the  letter  which  did  not  reach 
you,  has  been  recoiling  on  me  all  day.  Perhaps  you  have 
it  by  this  time  .  .  an  uncomfortable  letter,  better  away 
from  you,  notwithstanding  all  the  kindness  you  speak, 
about  my  silence  and  the  effect  of  that.    So  I  write  just  a 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  343 

few  words —  The  post  office  was  in  fault  as  usual.  May 
it  do  perfecter  duty  to-morrow. 

Saturday ! — our  day !  At  least  if  anything  should  be 
against  it,  you  shall  hear  at  the  door  by  a  note,  when  you 
come  at  three  o'clock.  I  have  put  away  my  Thursday 
night's  melancholy  .  .  except  the  repentance  of  troubling 
you  with  it understand  that  I  have ! 

Mrs.  Jameson  was  here  to-day,  and  her  niece,  .  .  and 
you,  never  named, — but  she  is  coming  another  day,  she 
says,  to  pay  me  a  longer  visit.  I  like  her  .  .  I  like  her. 
Then,  there  came  another  visitor,  .  .  my  uncle  Hedley, 
who  began,  as  usual,  to  talk  of  Italy— he  advises  me  to 
go  this  year. —  '  If  you  don't  go  this  year,  you  never  ivill 
go  .  .  and  you  ought  at  once  to  make  an  effort,  and  go.' 
We  talked  of  places  and  of  ways,  and  after  he  had  said 
many  words  in  favour  of  Pisa,  desired,  if  I  went  through 
Paris,  that  I  would  pay  him  a  visit.  'Ah,'  said  I,  '  uncle 
Hedley,  you  are  very  good  to  me  always,  but  when  that 
day  arrives,  you  may  be  inclined,  perhaps,  to  cast  me  off.' 
'  Cast  you  off,  Ba,'  he  cried  in  the  most  puzzled  astonish- 
ment— 'why  what  can  you  mean?  what  words  to  use! 
Cast  you  off !  now  do  explain  what  you  mean. '  'Ah,  no 
one  can  tell,'  said  I  musingly.  'Do  you  mean,'  he  in- 
sisted, '  because  you  will  be  a  rebel  and  a  runaway?  '  .  . 
(laughing!)  '  no,  no — /won't  cast  you  off,  I  promise  you! 
Only  I  hope  that  you  may  be  able  to  manage  it  quietly ' 
&c.  &c. 

He  is  a  most  amiable  man,  so  gentle  and  tender;  and 
fond  of  me;  exclusively  of  the  poetry.  I  am  certain  that 
he  never  can  make  out  how  anyone  in  the  world  can  con- 
sent to  read  my  verses.  But  Ba,  as  Ba,  is  a  decided  fa- 
vourite of  his,  beyond  all  in  the  house — not  that  he  is  a 
real  uncle  .  .  only  the  husband  of  my  aunt,  and  caring 
more  for  me  than  both  my  real  uncles,  who,  each  of  them, 
much  prefer  a  glass  of  claret, — thank  you !  The  very  com- 
parison does  me  too  much  honour  for  either  of  them. 
Claret  is  a  holy  thing.     If  I  had  said  half  a  glass,  and 


344   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  18 

mixed  it  with  water,  I  should  have  been  more  accurate  by 
so  much. 

Now,  dearest,  dearest,  I  say  good-night  and  have  done. 
I  am  wholly  yours  and  always. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  July  20,  1846.] 

Dearest  Ba's  face  of  yesterday,  with  the  smiles  and 
perfect  sweetness, — oh,  the  comfort  it  is  to  me  through 
this  day  of  my  especial  heaviness !  I  don't  know  when  I 
have  felt  more  stupid,  and  I  seem  to  keep  the  closelier  to 
you,  Ba.  Is  that  one  of  my  felicities  of  compliment?  I 
think  if  you  were  here  I  should  lay  my  head  on  your 
bosom,  my  own  beloved,  and  never  raise  it  again.  In 
your  last  letter,  you  speak  of  those  who  care  less  for  you 
than  for  a  '  glass  of  claret ' — there  is  something  sublime, 
— at  all  events,  astounding,  in  the  position  we  occupy  each 
of  us, — I,  and  those  less-carers, — standing  in  respect  to 
each  other  so  like  England  and  Owhyhee,  at  which,  they 
told  me  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  should  be  pretty  sure  to  ar- 
rive if  I  dug  a  hole  just  through  the  earth,  dropped  to  the 
centre  and  then,  turning  round,  climbed  straight  up ! 

I  left  here,  yesterday,  without  taking  the  prints  of 
Dumas  and  Hugo — there  is  a  head  '  for  remembering ! ' 
and  justifying  your  commodations !  Chorley  says,  you 
see,  my  acquisitions  are  rather  accumulated  than  digested 
— or  words  to  that  effect — I  am  sure  at  this  moment  the 
stupid,  heavy  head  knows  not  one  thing,  — as  a  clear  point 
of  knowledge,  taken  in  and  laid  by,  orderly  and  separately. 
So  let  me  say  here,  while  I  do  remember,  that  a  letter  from 
Forster  puts  off  his  visit  and  Moxon's  till  Monday — should 
any  reason,  therefore,  prevent  your  confirming  to  me  the 
gift  of  Tuesday,  this  other  day  will  lie  open — but  only  in 
that  case,  I  trust — because  Tuesday  objects  not  to  Satur- 
day, does  it?   while  Wednesday  looks  grave,  and  Thurs- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKKETT  345 

day  frowns  downright  on  the  same !    Friday,  remember, 
is  Mr.  Kenyon's  day. 

I  wish,  dearest,  you  would  tell  me  precisely  what  you 
have  written — all  my  affectionate  pride  in  you  rises  at 
once  when  I  think  of  your  poetry,  that  is  and  that  is  to 
be — you  dear,  dear  Ba,  can  you  not  write  on  my  shoulder 
while  my  head  lies  as  you  permit? 

I  found  at  home  on  my  return  yesterday  my  friend 
Pritchard,  who  brought  me  an  old  notice  of  Rachel  by 
Jules  Janin — of  course  there  is  no  believing  a  word — but 
he  does  say  that  she  was, — at  the  time  he  wrote, — perfectly 
ignorant  of  the  most  ordinary  rules  of  grammar,  — that,  for 
instance,  on  meeting  him  she  remarked  (alluding  to  her 
having  played  previously  at  another  theatre  than  the  T. 
Francais) — '  C'etait  moi  que  j'etait  au  Gymnase!' — to 
which  he  ought  to  have  answered,  he  thinks,  '  Je  le  sa- 
vions ! ' — I  will  bring  her  portrait,  too,  if  you  please — and 
this  memoir,  untrustworthy  as  it  is. 

I  will  go  now  and  walk  about,  I  think — did  you  go  out, 
as  you  promised,  love?  Ah,  dearest, — you  to  wonder  I 
could  look  up  to  you  for  ever  as  you  stand, — you  who  once 
wrote  to  me  that,  in  order  to  verify  a  date  about  Shelley 
in  a  book  I  lent  you,  '  You  had  accomplished  a  journey  to 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  even ' !  And  now !  I  thank- 
fully know  this  to  be  miraculous — nor  have  I  to  ask  my 
spiritual  director's  opinion  thereon — to  whom,  how  on 
earth  can  one  surrender  one's  private  right  of  judgment 
when  it  is  only  by  the  exercise  of  that  very  right  that  I 
select  him  from  the  multitude  of  would-be  directors  of  me 
and  the  whole  world?  What  but  a  deliberate  act  of  judg- 
ment takes  up  Dr.  Pusey  of  Oxford  rather  than  Mrs.  Fox 
of  Finsbury — and  is  it  for  that  pernicious  first  step  that  I 
determine  on  never  risking  a  second? 

Bless  you,  ever  dearest — and  do  you  bless  your 

very  own  R. 


346  THE  LETTEES  OP  ROBERT  BROWNING  [July  20 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  July  20,  1846.] 

Dearest,  the  leaf  of  yesterday  was  folded  down  quite 
smoothly  and  softly.  A  dinner  party  swept  the  thought 
of  you  out  of  people's  minds.  Otherwise  I  was  prepared 
to  be  a  little  afraid,  — for  my  aunt  said  to  Arabel,  upon  being 
f  dispensed  with  so  cavalierly  from  this  room,  .  .  (said  in 
the  passage,  Arabel  told  me,  with  a  half-laugh, )  '  Pray 
which  of  Ba's  lovers  may  this  be?  '  So  Arabel  had  to  tell 
the  name  of  the  visitor.  But  the  dinner-party  set  all  right, 
and  this  morning  I  was  asked  simply  whether  it  had  been 
an  agreeable  visit,  and  what  you  had  written,  and  banali- 
ties after  such  a  fashion. 

Oh,  and  I  went  out  .  .  remembering  your  desire  .  . 
was  it  not  a  desire,  dearest,  dearest?  I  went  out,  any  way 
— but  the  wind  blew,  and  I  had  to  hold  my  veil  against  my 
mouth,  doubled,  and  trebled  .  .  with  as  many  folds,  in- 
deed, as  Ajax's  shield  .  .  to  keep  myself  in  breathing 
order.  The  wind  always  gives  me  a  sort  of  strangling 
sensation,  which  is  the  effect,  I  suppose,  of  having  weak 
lungs.  So  it  was  not  a  long  walk,  but  I  liked  it  because 
you  seemed  to  be  with  me  still, — and  Arabel,  who  walked 
with  me,  was  '  sure,  without  being  told,  that  I  had  had  a 
happy  visit,  just  from  my  manner. '  The  wisest  of  inter- 
preters, I  called  her,  and  pour  cause. 

If  ever  I  mistake  you,  Robert,  doing  you  an  injustice, 
.  .  you  ought  to  be  angry,  I  think,  rather  and  more  with 
me  than  with  another — I  should  have  far  less  excuse  it 
appears  to  me,  for  making  such  a  mistake,  than  any  other 
person  in  the  world.  I  thought  so  yesterday  when  you 
were  speaking,  and  now  upon  consideration  I  think  so  with 
an  increasing  certainty.  Is  it  your  opinion  that  the  mem- 
bers of  our  family,  .  .  those  who  live  with  us  always,  .  . 
know  us  best?    They  know  us  on  the  side  we  offer  to 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKRETT  347 

them  .  .  a  bare  profile  .  .  or  the  head  turned  round  to 
the  ear — yes ! — they  do  not,  except  by  the  merest  chance, 
look  into  our  eyes.  They  know  us  in  a  conventional  way 
.  .  as  far  from  God's  way  of  knowing  us,  as  from  the 
world's— mid-way,  it  is — and  the  truest  and  most  cordial 
and  tender  affection  will  not  hinder  this  from  being  so 
partial  a  knowledge.  Love !  I  love  those  who  at  the  pres- 
ent moment,  .  .  who  love  me  (and  tenderly  on  both  sides) 
.  .  but  who  are  so  far  from  understanding  me,  that  I  never 
think  of  speaking  myself  into  their  ears  .  .  of  trying  to 
speak  myself.  It  is  wonderful,  it  is  among  the  great  mys- 
teries of  life,  to  observe  how  people  can  love  one  another 
in  the  dark,  blindly  .  .  loving  without  knowing.  And,  as 
a  matter  of  general  observation,  if  I  sought  to  have  a  man 
or  woman  revealed  to  me  in  his  or  her  innermost  nature,  I 
would  not  go  to  the  family  of  the  person  in  question — 
though  I  should  learn  there  best,  of  course,  about  personal 
habits,  and  the  social  bearing  of  him  or  her.  George  Sand 
delights  me  in  one  of  her  late  works,  where  she  says  that 
the  souls  of  blood  relations  seldom  touch  except  at  one  or 
two  points.     Perfectly  true,  that  is,  I  think — perfectly. 

Remember  how  you  used  to  say  that  I  did  not  know 
you  .  .  which  was  true  in  a  measure  .  .  yet  I  felt  I  knew 
you,  and  I  did  actually  know  you,  in  another  larger  meas- 
ure. And  if  noiv  you  are  not  known  to  me  altogether,  it  is 
my  dulness  which  makes  me  unknowing. 

But  I  know  you — and  I  should  be  without  excuse  if 
ever  I  wronged  you  with  a  moment's  injustice.  I  do  not 
think  I  ever  could  depreciate  you  for  a  moment, — that 
would  not  be  possible.  There  are  other  sins  against  you 
(are  they  against  you?)  which  bring  their  own  punish- 
ment !    You  shall  never  be  angry  with  me  for  those. 

While  I  was  writing,  came  Mr.  Kenyon.  As  usual  he 
said  that  there  was  no  use  in  his  coming — that  you  had 
taken  his  place,  and  so  on.  He  was  in  a  high  good  hu- 
mour, though,  and  spirits,  and  I  did  not  mind  much  what 
he  was  pleased  to  say.     More  I  minded,  that  he  means  '  to 


348  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [July  20 

stay  in  London  all  the  summer '  .  .  which  I  can't  be  glad 
of,  .  .  though  I  was  glad  at  his  not  persisting  in  going  to 
Scotland  against  his  own  wishes.  But  he  might  like  to 
go  somewhere  else— it  would  be  a  pleasure,  that,  in  which 
I  should  sympathize !     The  more  shame  for  me ! 

Mr.  Chorley  pleases  me  more  tlmn  he  ever  pleased  me 
before !  Only,  as  an  analysis,  he  has  done  curiously  with 
'  Pippa. '  But  it  is  good  appreciation,  good  and  right- 
eous, and  he  has  given  me,  altogether,  a  great,  great  deal 
of  pleasure.  As  to  the  letter,  I  liked  that  too  in  its  de- 
gree— and  the  advice  is  wise  for  the  head,  if  foolish  for  the 
work.     How  can  wise  people  be  so  foolish? 

I  am  going  out  to  walk  now  with  Henrietta,  and  shall 
put  this  letter  into  the  post  with  my  own  hand.  It  is 
seven  p.m.  May  Gcd  bless  you.  Do  say  how  you  are, 
dear,  dearest! 

I  am  your  very  own  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Monday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  20,  1846.] 

Certainly  you  do  know  me,  my  own  Ba,  beyond  all 
other  knowledge  possible  to  relatives, — that  I  know — in 
fact,  I  found  myself  speaking  unwarily  on  a  subject  where 
speech  is  obliged  to  stop  abruptly — the  fault  was  mine  for 
bringing  up  terms,  remarks  &c.  quite  inapplicable  out  of 
this  house, — where  all,  as  you  understand,  have  seen  me 
so  long  that  they  do  not  see  differences  in  me, — increases 
or  diminutions;  I  am  twice  as  blind,  most  likely,  to  them, 
after  the  same  fashion.  Still,  one  is  slow  to  concede  an 
excuse  to  such  blindness — hence  the  '  hasty  words  '  I  told 
you  they  charge  me  with  uttering. 

I  apprehend  no  danger  from  that,  to  your  feeling  for 
me — it  is  your  own  speech  my  Ba,  which  I  will  take  from 
you,  and  use — my  own  general  short-comings,  you  will  in- 
evitably see  and  be  sorry  for — but  there  will  be  the  more 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEBETT  349 

need  of  your  love,  which  I  shall  go  on  asking  for  daily  and 
nightly  as  if  I  never  could  have  enough — which  is  the 
exact  fact;  and  also,  I  shall  grow  fitter  through  the  love 
to  be  what  you  would  have  me,  so  the  end  may  be  better 
than  the  beginning,  let  us  hope. 

Will  you  not  do  what  you  can  with  me  who  am  your 
very  own?  as  you  are  my  own  too,  but  for  a  different  end 
• — I  am  yours  to  operate  on,  as  you  are  my  only  lady  to 
dispose  of  what  belongs  to  you.  Dear,  dearest  Ba,  it  is 
so ;  will  ever  be  so ! 

Yes,  that  notice  by  Chorley  is  very  kind  and  gratify- 
ing. I  wanted — (quite  apart  from  the  poor  good  to  me  or 
my  books — but  for  Chorley 's  own  sake,  I  rather  wanted) 
— some  decided  streak  of  red,  or  spot,  or  spark, — some  life 
in  the  increasing  grey  of  the  ashes — this  is  true,  live  lov- 
ingness  of  him — I  will  tell  him  so. 

For  Domett's  letter, — he  means,  by  all  that  nonsense, 
that  my  health  is  more  in  his  estimation  than  any  works 
producible  at  its  expense.  All  the  calculation  about  so 
many  lines  a  day,  so  many  a  month  &c,  he  knows  to  be  ab- 
surd .  .  you  can't  write  '  so  many  lines  to-day,'  and  add 
next  day's  complement,  and  so  '  grow  to  an  end ' — any 
more  than  you  can  paint  a  picture  by  thumb-breadths. 
The  other  paragraph  about  intelligibility  laughs  at  itself 
all  the  time  .  .  is  not  to  be  taken  for  serious. 

Indeed  I  did  desire  with  a  great  desiring  that  you 
should  go  out,  and  now  I  thank  you  for  all  the  good  ac- 
count of  the  walk,  and  victory  over  the  wind:  and  how 
kind  that  sister  is ! — I  shall  never  forget  it. 

My  own  head,  since  you  ivill  be  teazed  with  intelli- 
gence about  it,  was  not  very  well  yesterday,  but  is  better 
decidedly  this  morning — /,  too,  will  go  and  put  this  letter 
in  the  post  and  think  of  to-morrow  .  .  for  do  not  I  keep 
to-morrow?  I  shall  be  with  you  unless  another  order  comes 
.  .  may  it  be  averted !  And  may  you  be  happy  always  with 
me,  as  I  shall  be  through  you  .  .  nay,  but  half  as  happy, 
dearest  Ba,  my  very  own !  Your  R. 


350  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [July  22 

B.  B.  toE.  B.B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  July  22,  1846.] 

How  I  long,  my  sweetest  Ba,  to  know  whether  any- 
heavy  price  is  to  be  paid  for  our  three  hours  yesterday, — 
if  your  Aunt  knew  or  has  discovered  since?  I  shall  not 
murmur  in  any  case,  I  hope  .  .  they  are  too  delicious, 
these  three-hour  visits — and  if  i"  could  pay  for  them  by 
myself,  Ba, — what  would  I  not  pay? 

Will  you  let  me  write  something,  and  forgive  me?  Be- 
cause it  is,  I  know,  quite  unnecessary  to  be  written,  and, 
beside,  may  almost  seem  an  interference  with  your  own 
delicacy, — teaching  it  its  duty !  However,  I  will  venture 
to  go  on,  with  your  hand  before  my  two  eyes.  Then, — 
you  remember  what  we  were  speaking  of  yesterday, — 
house-rents  and  styles  of  living?  You  will  never  over- 
look, through  its  very  obviousness,  that  to  consult  my 
feelings  on  the  only  point  in  which  they  are  sensitive 
to  the  world  you  must  endeavour  to  live  as  simply  and 
cheaply  as  possible,  down  to  my  own  habitual  simplicity 
and  cheapness, — so  that  you  shall  come  and  live  with  me, 
in  a  sense,  rather  than  I  with  Miss  Campbell !  You  see, 
Ba,  if  you  have  more  money  than  you  want,  you  shall  save 
it  or  spend  it  in  pictures  or  parrots  or  what  you  please  .  . 
you  avoid  all  offence  to  me  who  never  either  saved  money 
nor  spent  it — but  the  large  house,  I  should  be  forced  to 
stay  in, — the  carriage,  to  enter,  I  suppose.  And  you  see 
too,  Ba,  that  the  one  point  on  which  I  desire  the  world  to 
be  informed  concerning  our  future  life,  will  be  that  it  is 
ordered  so — I  wish  they  could  hear  we  lived  in  one  room 
like  George  Sand  in  '  that  happy  year — ' 

No,  there  I  have  put  down  an  absurdity — because,  I 
shall  have  to  confess  a  weakness,  at  some  time  or  other, 
which  is  hardly  reconcilable  to  that  method  of  being  happy 
— why  may  I  not  tell  you  now,  my  adored  Ba,  to  whom 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKKETT  351 

I  tell  everything  as  it  rises  to  me?  Now  put  the  hand  on 
my  eyes  again — now  that  I  have  kissed  it.  I  shall  begin 
by  begging  a  separate  room  from  yours — I  could  never 
brush  my  hair  and  wash  my  face,  I  do  think,  before  my 
own  father— I  could  not,  I  am  sure,  take  off  my  coat  be- 
fore you  now — why  should  I  ever?  The  kitchen  is  an  un- 
known horror  to  me, — I  come  to  the  dining-room  for  what- 
ever repast  there  may  be, — nor  willingly  stay  too  long 
there, — and  on  the  day  on  which  poor  Countess  Peppa 
taught  me  how  maccaroni  is  made, — then  began  a  quiet 
revolution,  (indeed  a  rapid  one)  against  '  tagliolini, '  '  fet- 
tucce,'  'lasagne,'  etc.,  etc.,  etc. — typical,  tj^pical! 

What  foolishness  .  .  spare  me,  my  own  Ba,  and  don't 
answer  one  word, — do  not  even  laugh, — for  I  Tcnoio  the  ex- 
ceeding unnecessary  foolishness  of  it ! 

Chorley  has  just  sent  me  a  note  which  I  will  send  you 
because  it  is  most  graceful  in  its  modesty — but  you  must 
not,  if  you  please,  return  it  to  me  in  an  envelope  that 
ought  only  to  hold  your  own  writing, — and  so  make  my 
heart  beat  at  first,  and  my  brows  knit  at  last !  (Toss  it  into 
'  my  room, '  at  Pisa !  !) 

Thus  it  is  to  be  made  happy  and  unwise !  Never  mind 
— make  me  happier  still  by  telling  me  you  are  well  and 
have  been  out,  and  where,  and  when,  and  how — the  foot- 
steps of  you,  Ba,  should  be  kissed  if  I  could  follow  them. 

Bless  you,  ever  dearest,  dearest,  as  yesterday,  and  al- 
ways you  bless  me — I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul 
— yes  Ba ! 

Your  own,  very  own. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  July  22,  1846.] 

I  did  not  go  out  yesterday,  and  was  very  glad  not  to 
have  a  command  laid  on  me  to  go  out,  the  wind  blew  so 
full  of  damp  and  dreariness.     Then  it  was  pleasanter  to  lie 


852   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [July  22 

on  the  sofa  and  think  of  you,  which  I  did,  till  at  last  I 
actually  dreamed  of  you,  falling  asleep  for  that  purpose. 
As  to  Flush,  he  came  upstairs  with  a  good  deal  of  shame 
in  the  bearing  of  his  ears,  and  straight  to  me — no  indeed ! 
I  would  not  speak  to  him — then  he  went  up  to  Arabel  .  . 
'  naughty  Flush,  go  away  '  .  .  and  Wilson,  .  .  who  had 
whipped  him  before,  •  because  it  was  right, '  she  said  .  . 
in  a  fit  of  poetical  justice,  .  .  did  not  give  him  any  conso- 
lation. So  he  lay  down  on  the  floor  at  my  feet  looking 
from  under  his  eyebrows  at  me.  I  did  not  forgive  him  till 
nearly  eight  o'clock  however.  And  I  have  not  yet  given 
him  your  cakes.  Almost  I  am  inclined  to  think  now  that 
he  has  not  a  soul.  To  behave  so  to  you !  It  is  nearly  as 
bad  as  if  I  had  thrown  the  coffee  cup !  Wicked  Flush ! — 
Do  you  imagine  that  I  scolded  Wilson  when  she  confessed 
to  having  whipped  him?  I  did  not.  It  was  done  with 
her  hand,  and  not  very  hardly  perhaps,  though  '  he  cried, ' 
she  averred  to  me — and  if  people,  like  Flush,  choose  to  be- 
have like  dogs  savagely,  they  must  take  the  consequences 
indeed,  as  dogs  usually  do !  And  you,  so  good  and  gentle 
to  him !  Anyone  but  you,  would  have  said  '  hasty  words  ' 
at  least.  I  think  I  shall  have  a  muzzle  for  him,  to  make 
him  harmless  while  he  learns  to  know  you.  Would  it  not 
be  a  good  plan? 

But  nobody  heard  yesterday  of  either  your  visit  or  of 
Flush's  misdoings  .  .  so  Wilson  was  discreet,  I  suppose, 
as  she  usually  is,  by  the  instinct  of  her  vocation.  Of  all 
the  persons  who  are  not  in  our  confidence,  she  has  the 
most  certain  knowledge  of  the  truth.  Dearest,  we  shall  be 
able  to  have  Saturday.     There  will  be  no  danger  in  it. 

Perhaps  in  the  days  to  come  we  shall  look  back  on  these 
days  as  cove  table  things.  Will  you  do  so,  because  you 
were  loved  in  them  as  a  beginning,  or  because  you  were 
free?  (Am  /not  as  bad  as  Flush,  to  ask  such  questions?) 
/shall  look  back  on  these  days  gratefully  and  gladly,  be- 
cause the  good  in  them  has  overcome  the  evil,  for  the  first 
time  in  days  of  mine.     Yet  my  position  is  worse  than 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  353 

yours  on  some  accounts — now.  Henrietta  has  had  a  letter 
from  Capt.  Surtees  Cook  who  says  in  it,  she  says,  .  .  '  I 
hope  that  poor  Ba  will  have  courage  to  the  end.'  There's 
a  generous  sympathy !  Tell  me  that  there  is  none  in  the 
world ! 

Will  you  let  me  know  how  you  are?  Such  a  letter  you 
wrote  to  me  on  Sunday !  Ah ! — to  be  anything  to  you  .  .  . 
what  is  the  colour  of  ambition  afterwards?  When  I  look 
forwards  I  can  see  no  work  and  no  rest,  but  what  is  for 
you  and  in  you.  Even  Duty  seems  to  concentrate  itself 
into  one  Debt—    Dearest ! 

Yet  it  will  be  a  little  otherwise  perhaps ! — not  that  ever 
I  shall  love  you  otherwise  or  less —    No. 

You  shall  see  some  day  at  Pisa  what  I  will  not  show 
you  now.  Does  not  Solomon  say  that  '  there  is  a  time  to 
read  what  is  written.'     If  he  doesn't,  he  ought. 

Your  very  own  Ba. 

R  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post -mark,  July  23,  1846.] 

Dearest,  what  you  say  is  unnecessary  for  you  to  say — 
it  is  in  everything  so  of  course  and  obvious !  You  must 
have  an  eccentric  idea  of  me  if  you  can  suppose  for  a  mo- 
ment such  things  to  be  necessary  to  say.  If  they  had  been 
unsaid,  it  would  have  been  precisely  the  same,  believe  me, 
m  the  event. 

As  to  the  way  of  living — now  you  shall  arrange  that  for 
yourself.  You  shall  choose  your  own  lodging,  order  your 
own  dinner  .  .  and  if  you  choose  to  live  on  locusts  and 
wild  honey,  I  promise  not  to  complain  .  .  I  shall  not  in- 
deed be  inclined  to  complain  .  .  having  no  manner  of  am- 
bition about  carriages  and  large  houses,  even  if  they  were 
within  our  possibilities, — which  they  may  not  be,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Surtees 's  calculation  or  experience.  The  more 
simply  we  live,  the  better  for  me!  So  you  shall  arrange  it 
Vol.  II.— 23 


354   THE  LETTEES  OF  BOBEET  BEOWNESTG  [July  23 

for  yourself,  lest  I  should  make  a  mistake  1  .  .  which,  in 
thai  question,  is  a  just  possible  thing. 

One  extravagance  I  had  intended  to  propose  to  you  .  . 
but  it  shall  be  exactly  as  you  like,  and  I  hesitate  a  little 
as  I  begin  to  speak  of  it.  I  have  thought  of  taking  AVilson 
with  me,  .  .  for  a  year,  say,  if  we  returned  then — if  not, 
we  might  send  her  home  aloue  .  .  and  by  that  time,  I 
should  be  stronger  perhaps  and  wiser  .  .  rather  less  sub- 
limely helpless  and  impotent  than  I  am  now.  My  sisters 
have  urged  me  a  good  deal  in  this  matter — but  if  you  would 
rather  it  were  otherwise,  be  honest  and  say  so,  and  let  me 
alter  my  thoughts  at  once.  There  is  one  consideration 
which  I  submit  to  yours,  .  .  that  I  cannot  leave  this  house 
with  the  necessary  number  of  shoes  and  pocket  handker- 
chiefs, without  help  from  somebody.  Now  whoever  helps 
me,  will  suffer  through  me.  If  I  left  her  behind  she  would 
be  turned  into  the  street  before  sunset.  Would  it  be  right 
and  just  of  me,  to  permit  it?  Consider!  I  must  manage 
a  sheltering  ignorance  for  my  poor  sisters,  at  the  last,  .  . 
and  for  all  our  sakes.  And  in  order  to  that,  again,  I  must 
have  some  one  else  in  my  confidence.  Whom,  again,  I 
would  unwillingly  single  out  for  an  absolute  victim. 

Wilson  is  attached  to  me,  I  believe — and,  in  all  the  dis- 
cussions about  Italy,  she  has  professed  herself  willing  to 
'  go  anywhere  in  the  world  with  me. '  Indeed  I  rather 
fancy  that  she  was  disappointed  bitterly  last  year,  and  that 
it  would  not  be  a  pure  devotion.  She  is  an  expensive  ser- 
vant— she  has  sixteen  pounds  a  year,  .  .  but  she  has  her 
utilities  besides,  and  is  very  amiable  and  easily  satisfied, 
and  would  not  add  to  the  expenses,  or  diminish  from  the 
economies,  even  in  the  matter  of  room — I  would  manage 
that  for  her.  Then  she  would  lighten  your  responsibili- 
ties .  .  as  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  company  do 
Mr.  Bevan's.  Well — you  have  only  to  consider  your  own 
wishes.  I  shall  not  care  many  straws,  if  you  decide  this 
way  or  that  way.     Let  it  be  as  may  seem  to  you  wisest. 

I  like  Mr.  Chorley's  note.     I  began  to  write  so  late  that 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  355 

i",  too,  must  send  you  a  bare  note  to-night.  May  God 
bless  you,  ever  dearest.  I  am  tired  .  .  so  tired — yet  I 
have  not  a  long  story  to  tell  you  of  myself  for  the  day's 
chronicle.  I  was  just  out  for  the  few  minutes  my  walking 
occupies,  and  came  home  and  had  coffee  at  half-past  four; 
and  scarcely  was  the  cup  empty,  when  Mrs.  Jameson  ar- 
rived— she  stayed  while  you  might  count  to  a  hundred — • 
and  your  name  was  not  once  mentioned.  And  now,  good- 
night. I  hope  the  '  testimonials  '  may  be  c  satisfactory, ' 
in  this  note  which  will  not  wait  to  be  a  letter !  Dearest, 
say  how  your  head  is— do. 

I  am  your  Ba,  always ! 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  July  23,  1846.] 

I  have  Just  returned  from  Town  and  Mr.  Kenyon's,  my 
own  Ba.  I  called,  according  to  compact,  to  point  out  the 
precise  way  he  must  go  to  reach  us.  He  seemed  to  make 
sure  I  was  going  to  Wimpole  Street — '  Oh,  no ! ' 

So,  losing  Wimpole  Street,  I  made  haste  home,  and 
gain  my  letter, — my  dear  letter:  yesterday  night,  too,  the 
first  letter  arrived  duly — you  perfect  in  kindness ! 

My  dearest — dearest, — you  might  go  to  Pisa  without 
shoes, — or  feet  to  wear  them,  for  aught  I  know,  since  you 
may  have  wings,  only  folded  away  from  me — but  without 
your  Wilson,  or  some  one  in  her  capacity,  you  .  .  no,  I 
will  not  undertake  to  speak  of  you  ;  then,  I,  should  be  sim- 
ply, exactly,  insane  to  move  a  step ;  I  would  rather  pro- 
pose, let  us  live  on  bread  and  water,  and  sail  in  the  hold 
of  a  merchant-ship ;  this  cannot  be  dispensed  with !  It  is 
most  fortunate,  most  providential,  that  Wilson  is  inclined 
to  go — I  am  very  happy;  for  a  new  servant,  with  even 
the  best  dispositions,  would  never  be  able  to  anticipate 
your  wants  and  wishes  during  the  voyage,  at  the  very  be- 


356   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  23 

ginning.  Yet  you  write  of  this  to  me  so,  my  Ba !  I  think 
I  will,  in  policy,  begin  the  anger  at  a  good  place.  Yes, 
all  the  anger  I  am  capable  of  descends  on  the  head —  (not 
in  kisses,  whatever  you  may  fancy). 

And  so  poor  Flush  suffered  after  all !  Dogs  that  are 
dog-like  would  be  at  no  such  pains  to  tell  you  they  would 
not  see  you  with  comfort  approached  by  a  stranger  who 
might  be — !  A  '  muzzle  '  ?  oh,  no, — but  suppose  you  have 
him  removed  next  time,  and  perhaps  the  next,  till  the 
whole  occurrence  is  out  of  his  mind  as  the  fly  bite  of  last 
week — because,  if  he  sees  me  and  begins  his  barking  and 
valiant  snapping,  and  gets  more  and  heavier  vengeance 
downstairs,  perhaps, — his  transient  suspicion  of  me  will 
confirm  itself  into  absolute  dislike,  hatred,  whereas,  after 
an  interval,  we  can  renew  acquaintance  on  a  better  footing. 
Dogs  have  such  memories !  My  sister  told  me  last  week 
she  saw  in  a  provincial  newspaper  an  anecdote  of  one, — a 
miller's  dog,  that  was  a  good  fellow  in  the  main,  but  chose 
to  take  an  especial  dislike  to  one  of  his  master's  customers, 
whom  he  invariably  flew  at  and  annoyed — so  much  so  that 
the  man  declared  he  must  carry  his  custom  elsewhere  un- 
less the  dog  was  parted  with :  this  the  miller  was  unwilling 
to  do;  so  he  hit  on  an  expedient — by  some  contrivance, 
the  dog  was  suffered  to  fall  into  a  deep  well,  and  bark 
himself  hoarse  there  in  vain — no  help  came — till  the  obnox- 
ious individual  arrived,  let  himself  down  and  brought  up 
the  prisoner.  From  which  time  nothing  could  exceed  the 
devotion  of  the  dog  to  his  rescuer;  whom  he  always  in- 
sisted henceforth  on  accompanying  as  far  as  his  home,  for 
one  instance  of  it. 

I  wonder  whether  I  have  anywhere  one  of  the  sketches 
my  father  made  of  my  bulldog's  face. 

What  ' tired '  you,  dearest?  You  are  not  less  well,  I 
trust?  Pray  tell  me, — and  remember  there  are  three  days 
before  our  Saturday.  I  am  very  much  better — the  walking 
and  riding  of  this  morning  did  me  good,  too — and  what 
profits  it,  if  you  are  not  better  also?    Love  me  in  caring 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  357 

for  yourself,  which  is  my  truest  self!     And  I  will  go  on 
and  try  to  love  you  more  than  I  do — for  what  may  happen? 

Ever  your  own  K. 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  24,  1846.] 

No  letter  for  me  to-night!  not  a  word! — Perhaps  the 
post  is  sinning  again.  If  so,  I  shall  hear  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, if  not  .  .  ma}'  it  be  anything  rather  than  that  you  are 
more  unwell  than  usual !  anything ! 

There  is  not  much  to  say  on  my  part.  I  had  a  letter 
from  Miss  Mitford  this  morning,  and  she  encloses  to  me 
.  .  .  you  will  not  guess  what — a  lyric  of  the  ubiquitous 
Bennett — the  '  Mignonette. '  Are  you  not  amused?  That's 
the  way  to  '  agitate  '  for  readers  and  praisers.  She  sees 
something  in  Bennett.  He  is  to  be  ''  heard  of  in  our  lit- 
erature. '     She  shed  tears  over  the  '  Mignonette, '  herself — 

Your  portrait  of  Victor  Hugo,  I  like  less  and  less — 
there  is  something  ignoble  in  the  face — and  even  the  fore- 
head is  rather  big  than  large.  He  does  not  '  look  like  a 
poet '  in  any  case — now  does  he? 

Dearest,  did  I  annoy  you  .  .  frighten  you,  .  .  about 
Wilson  yesterday?  Did  that  prevent  you  from  writing  to 
me  to-day — if  really  you  did  not  write  to  me  to-day?  It 
yet  was  the  merest  question,  .  .  I  wished  you  to  under- 
stand— the  merest  question  for  a  yes  or  a  no — and  I  shall 
not  mind,  however  you  may  answer,  be  certain.  I  have 
been  thinking  to-day  that  it  would  be  possible  enough  to 
leave  a  direction  which  might  supply  everything,  and  so 
escape  inflicting  the  injury  apprehended — yes,  and  as  for 
myself,  I  shall  manage  perfectly.  Observe  how  I  pinned 
your  coat,  miraculously  pricking  you  at  the  same  moment. 
I  shall  do  for  myself  and  by  myself,  as  well  as  possible. 
And  therefore,  judge,  speak  your  thoughts  out  to  the  pur- 
pose and  without  drawback.     I  shall  always  feel  to  thank 


358   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  24 

you  for  speaking  the  truth,  even  where  it  goes  against  me. 
But  this  will  not  go  against  me,  however  you  speak  it,  .  . 
understand. 

And  as  for  what  my  sisters  think,  it  is  nothing  to  the 
purpose.  Say  your  '  no, '  and  they  never  shall  hear  it. 
I  will  avoid  the  subject  from  henceforth,  with  them  .  .  thai 
is  all. 

And  take  care  of  Mr.  Kenyon  to-morrow.  I  feel  afraid 
of  Mr.  Kenyon.  But  take  care  of  yourself  most — look  well 
that  you  never  let  me  do,  in  the  least  or  greatest  matter, 
what  would  seem  better  undone  hereafter.  Not  in  the 
least,  not  in  the  greatest.  For  me,  if  I  am  to  be  thought 
of,  remember  that  you  kill  me,  if  you  suffer  me  to  injure 
you.     That  is  for  me. 

See  how  I  exhort  people  who  do  not  write  to  me !  .  . 
Ah  no!  It  must  be  the  post's  fault.  You  could  not  be 
very  much  vexed  with  me,  I  think,  for  a  mere  proposal 
about  Wilson.  And  the  rest  of  my  letter  was  all  made  up 
of  assent  and  agreement.  You  could  not  be  vexed  about 
Wilson.  And  you  shall  not  be  ill,  because  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  it — which,  dearest,  is  a  good  reason  and  irre- 
fragable. 

The  Hedleys  dine  here,  and  others.  I  hear  the  voices 
and  the  laughing.  I  wish  I  could,  your  voice,  as  near. 
May  God  bless  you  .  .  bless  you — 

Your  own  Ba. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  July  24,  1846.] 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  Ba,  look  to  be  kissed  to-morrow  till 
it  hurts  you, — punished  you  ought  to  be  for  such  a  letter! 
When  the  ancients  were  in  doubt  about  a  man's  identity 
(the  ancient  fathers)  they  called  him  '  aut  Erasmus  (or 
whoever  it  might  be)  aut— diabolus ! ' — no  gradation,  no 
mean  between  best  and  worst !     Or  do  you  think  Flush  bit 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  359 

me  and  inoculated  me  with,  super-cynical  snappishness? 
Well,  I  do  think  I  should  not  have  conducted  myself  as  you 
consider  highly  possible, — even  if  you  had  made,  let  me 
say  at  once,  the  most  preposterous  of  proposals,  even  that 
of  going  ivithout  Wilson,  or  her  substitute.  I  think  and 
am  sure  I  should,  like  a  rational  being,  write  all  the  faster 
to  *?y  and  get  you  to  reconsider  the  matter — convinced  as 
I  should  be  that  your  perfect  good  sense  would,  after  a 
few  minutes'  examination,  see  that  I  could  no  more  take 
you  away  without  such  assistance  than  desire  you  to  per- 
form the  passage  of  the  Mont  Cenis  on  foot.  Do  I  not  re- 
member that  you  intended  to  be  thus  accompanied  even 
when  your  sister  was  to  be  of  the  party?  But  the  abso- 
lute necessity  of  what  you  fancy  I  may  object  to  .  .  it  is 
not  that,  I  complain  about — but  of  the  strange  notion,  that 
whenever  Fate  shall  decree  that  you  say,  or  do,  or  think 
anything,  from  which  I  shall  be  forced  to  differ, — my 
proceedings  will  needs  take  this  fashion  and  colour — I 
shall  '  sulk '  and  say  nothing, — or  perhaps  turn  aside 
grandly  offended  and  meditative  of  noble  vengeance !  Oh, 
Ba,  dearest,  dearest  beyond  all  words,  come  for  once  and 
always  into  the  heart  which  is  your  own,  and  see  how  full 
it  is  of  you,  and  if  you  say,  that  does  not  prevent  the  head 
being  weak  and  acting  accordingly,  I  will  begin  exemplify- 
ing the  very  point  I  want  to  convince  you  of  by  at  once 
writing  and  speaking  and  by  every  imaginable  means  mak- 
ing you  know,  that  the  heart  does  teach  the  head  better 
than  such  foolishness — ought  to  do  it,  and  does  do  it ! 

Do  you  believe  me,  Ba,  my  own?  Or,  what  nonsense ! 
Did  you  wonder  at  my  letter  when  it  did  come?  Or  did  it 
come?  It  was  duly  posted  at  Deptford — moreover  the 
*  Thursday  '  at  the  top  was  written  '  Wednesday' — because 
all  day  long  I  was  in  that  error — having  been  used  to  soe 
you  on  Mondays,  and  to  calculate  my  time  by  the  number 
of  days  since  I  saw  you — whence,  knowing  to  my  cost  that 
two  days  had  gone  by  since  such  an  event,  I  thought  what 
I  wrote. 


360   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  24 

Now  kiss  ine,  my  very  own,  for  an  end  to  every  thing 
— your  doubt  and  my  impudent  making  the  most  of  it, — 
for  I  do  not  doubt  you,  sweetest,  truest,  best  love ! 

To-morrow  brings  me  to  you,  Ba,  I  trust — I  will  be 
careful  to-day,  never  fear  your 

own  devoted  E. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  July  27,  1846.1 

Why  should  you  ask  such  a  question  of  me  yesterday, 
as  to  whether  I  loved  you  as  much  then  as  ever?  Love 
you  as  much?  Why  should  I  not  love  you  more?  .  .  to 
give  question  for  question.  And  it  does  seem  to  me,  too, 
that  my  question  is  more  reasonable  than  yours.  '  Is  it 
afternoon  at  six  o'clock,'  you  might  have  asked  in  the 
same  breath  with  yours,  and  touched,  so,  as  questionable 
a  matter. 

Tell  me  how  the  evening  passed  at  Mr.  Kenyon's.  I 
have  seen  nobody  yet — not  him,  not  Mrs.  Jameson. 

Seen  nobody?  Except  all  the  Hedleys,  who  have  just 
left  my  room.  Do  you  know,  the  pomp  and  circumstance, 
the  noise  and  fuss  and  publicity  of  this  marriage  of  theirs 
happen  just  in  time  to  make  me  satisfied  with  '  quite  the 
other  principle  '  as  you  said.  The  system  they  are  carry- 
ing out  is  detestable  to  its  own  extreme.  Fifty  or  sixty 
people  are  to  breakfast  at  Teuton's  Hotel,  .  .  with  pro- 
cessions to  and  fro !  .  .  which  altogether,  though  the  bride 
will  bear  it  very  well,  (for  she  has  been  used  to  be  a  Belle 
ex-officio,  and  this  business  has  been  arranged  by  her  and 
for  her — otherwise  they  would  have  all  been  in  Paris)  is 
likely,  I  think,  to  half  kill  the  bride's  mother.  My  poor 
aunt  wonders  how  she  will  get  through  it.  To  have  to 
part  with  her  daughter  in  that  crowd !  So  barbarous  a 
system  it  is,  this  system  of  public  marriages,  under  what- 
ever light  considered.     Both  my  sisters  are  invited;  and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  361 

so  was  II  (in  vain)  and  Henrietta  officiates  as  a  brides- 
maid. Did  I  tell  you  that  Arabella  Hedlej'  is  a  glorious 
convert  to  Puseyism,  as  might  have  been  expected,  and 
talked  here  like  a  theologian  a  few  days  since,  and  '  con- 
sidered the  dissenters  in  a  most  dangerous  position, '  much 
to  the  amusement  of  my  brothers. 

What  am  I  writing  of  all  this  time?  Dearest,  how  did 
you  get  home  yesterday  through  the  ambush  at  Mr.  Ken- 
yon's?  Tell  me  everything.  And  know  that  I  love  you  '  as 
much,'  my  own  beloved! — you  may  know  it. 

When  Flush  came  into  the  room  and  had  spoken  to  me 
(in  the  Flush-language)  and  had  examined  your  chair,  he 
suddenly  fell  into  a  rapture  and  reminded  me  that  the 
cakes  you  left,  were  on  the  table.  So  I  explained  thor- 
oughly to  him  that  you  had  brought  them  for  him,  and 
that  he  ought  to  be  properly  ashamed  therefore  for  his 
past  wickedness,  and  make  up  his  mind  to  love  3rou  and 
not  bite  you  for  the  future — and  then  he  was  allowed  to 
profit  from  your  goodness  to  him.  How  over-good  of 
you!  It  is  an  encouragement  to  throw  coffee-cups,  .  . 
such  over-goodness ! 

Nobody  knew  of  your  being  here  yesterday— at  least, 
not  that  I  know !  So  Tuesday  looks  brightly,  at  a  distance. 
At  a  distance !  The  day  after  to-morrow !  Ah,  it  seems 
too  near !  Too  near,  in  the  sense  of  saying  '  Too  good  .  . 
to  be  true. ' 

I  will  write  the  paper  as  you  bid  me.  Only,  in  the 
face  of  all  that  is  to  come,  I  solemnly  tell  you  that  neither 
I  nor  mine  .  .  certainly  not  I  .  .  will  consent  to  an  act  of 
injustice,  disinheriting  my  last  hours  (whenever  they  shall 
come)  of  a  natural  satisfaction.  You  are  noble  in  all 
things — but  this  will  not  be  in  your  power — I  will  not  dis- 
cuss it  so  as  to  teaze  you.  Your  reputation  is  dear  to  me 
of  course  .  .  the  thoughts  which  men  shall  have  of  you  in 
the  least  matter,  I  would  choose  to  keep  clean  .  .  .  free 
from  every  possible  taint.  But  it  will  be  obvious  to  all, 
that  if  you  pleased,  you  might  throw  out  of  the  windows 


362   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [July  27 

everything  called  mine,  the  moment  after  our  marriage — 
interest  and  principal — why  not?  And  if  you  abstain  from 
this,  and  after  your  own  death  allow  the  sum  which  origi- 
nally came  from  my  family,  to  relapse  there  .  .  why  it  is 
all  of  pure  generosity  on  your  part — and  they  will  under- 
stand it  as  I  do,  .  .  as  generosity  .  .  as  more  than  justice. 
Well — let  that  be !  It  is  your  act,  and  not  mine,  letting  it 
be — and  I  have  no  objection  to  show  you  what  my  wishes 
are,  (mere  wishes),  so  helping  you  to  carry  out  such  an 
act  in  the  best  way.  I  send  you  the  paper  therefore — to 
that  end — and  only  that  end.  There,  you  must  stop — I 
never  will  consent  to  the  extravagance  you  propose  about 
yourself.  You  shall  not,  if  you  love  me,  think  of  carrying 
it  out.  If  I  thought  you  could  be  so  hard  on  me,  .  .  do  you 
know,  I  would  rather  throw  it  all  up  now  into  the  hands 
of  my  sisters,  and  be  poor  with  you  at  once — I  could  bear 
that  so  much  better  than  the  thoughts  of  leaving  you  to  be 
poor.  Or,  would  you  be  easier,  dearest — if  apart  were  re- 
linquished now  ?  would  it  make  you  easier  .  .  and  would 
you  promise  me,  so,  that  what  is  mine  should  be  accepted 
as  yours  to  the  end?  The  worst  is  that  if  I  were  ill,  I 
should  be  a  burden  to  you,  and  thus  we  might  have  rea- 
sons for  regret.  Still  it  shall  be  as  pleases  you  best. 
But  /must  be  pleased  a  little  too.     It  in  fair  that  I  should. 

Certainly  you  exaggerate  to  yourself  the  position. 
What  would  have  become  of  you  if  you  had  loved  a  real 
heiress  instead?  That  would  have  been  a  misfortune.  As 
it  is,  while  you  are  plotting  how  to  get  rid  of  these  penny- 
pieces,  everybody  will  be  pitying  you  for  having  fixed 
yourself  in  such  conditions  of  starvation.  Ton,  who  might 
- — have  man-led  31iss  Burdett  Goutts  ! 

See  how  I  tease  you ! — first  promising  not  to  tease  you ! 
But  always  I  am  worse  than  I  meant  to  be.  Wasn't  it 
your  fault  a  little  for  bringing  ujj  this  horrible  subject? 
— but  here  is  the  paper,  the  only  sort  of  '  settlement '  we 
shall  have !  Always  I  have  said  and  sworn  that  I  never,  if 
I  married,  would  have  a  settlement — and  now  I  thank  God 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  363 

to  be  able  to  keep  my  word  so.     This  only  is  a  settlement 
of  the  question. 

Beloved,  how  is  your  head?  I  love  you  out  of  the 
deepest  of  my  heart,  and  shall  not  cease. 

Your  very  own 
Ba. 

Is  this  what  is  called  a  document?  It  seems  to  me  that 
I  have  a  sort  of  legal  genius — and  that  I  should  be  on  the 
Woolsack  in  the  Martineau  Parliament.  But  it  seems,  too, 
rather  bold  to  attach  such  a  specification  to  your  name. 
Laugh  and  pardon  it  all ! 

In  compliance  with  the  request  of  Robert  Browning, 
who  may  possibly  become  my  husband,  that  I  would  ex- 
press in  writing  my  wishes  respecting  the  ultimate  disposal 
of  whatever  property  I  possess  at  this  time,  whether  in 
the  funds  or  elsewhere,  .  .  I  here  declare  my  wishes  to 
be  .  .  that  he,  Bobert  Browning,  .  .  having,  of  course,  as 
it  is  his  right  to  do,  first  held  and  used  the  property  in 
question  for  the  term  of  his  natural  life,  .  .  should  be- 
queath the  same,  by  an  equal  division,  to  my  two  sisters, 
or,  in  the  case  of  the  previous  death  of  either  or  both  of 
them,  to  such  of  my  surviving  brothers  as  most  shall  need 
it  by  the  judgment  of  my  eldest  surviving  brother. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Barrett. 

Wimpole  Street :  July,  1846. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  July  27,  1846.] 

Mr.  Kenyon  said  nothing, — except  a  few  words  at  din- 
ner about  the  mistake  of  Talfourd,  to  Forster, — nothing 
whatever,  though  we  sat  together  and  talked  for  some  time 
before  the  arrival  of  the  company.  And  all  that  I  heard 
about  Mrs.  Jameson,  was  her  return  to  Ealing  and  some 
wish  she  meant  to  express  in  a  letter,  of  seeing  me  there. 


364   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [July  27 

So  you  will  have  to  tell  me  and  tell  me,  dearest,  when  you 
know  anything — to-day  perhaps. 

My  own  Ba,  do  not  refer  to  wliat  we  spoke  of — the  next 
vile  thing  to  the  vilest  is,  being  too  conscious  of  avoiding 
that, — painfully,  ostentatiously,  protesting  and  debating — 
only  it  seemed  absolutely  necessary  to  say  thus  much  at 
some  time,  and  early  : — now  it  is  done  with,  — you  under- 
standing what  I  expect  at  your  hands. 

Mr.  Longman  was  of  the  party  yesterday — speaking  of 
Haydon,  he  remarked  on  his  omitting  to  mention  in  the 
list  of  his  creditors,  '  the  House  '■ — to  which  he  owed  about 
100/.  being  the  loss  consequent  on  publishing  his  '  Book ' 
— the  Lectures,  I  suppose — then,  in  a  break,  he  said,  in 
answer  to  a  question  from  Forster,  that  the  Book  in  ques- 
tion had  gone  into  a  second  edition,  but  '  Oh,  no — the 
Author  had  received  nothing  for  it ! '  And  he  lost  the 
money,  poor  fellow,  besides !  Is  not  that  inexplicable  to 
all  save  booksellers?  Also,  what  could  be  his  need  for 
another  person's  intermediation  with  the  Longmans  since 
he  knew  them  so  well  and  so  long ! 

I  hope  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  our  meeting  on 
Tuesday.  Do  you  think  I  am  any  longer  able  to  appre- 
ciate properly  the  additional  gift  of  the  day  in  the  week? 
I  only  know  that  I  do  not  see  you  now,  my  Ba — and  I  feel 
as  if  I  were— the  words  must  not  be  written !  I  need  all  of 
you, — utterly  dearest  dearest  that  you  are!  My  next  day, 
my  '  Sunday  '  is  the  forlornest  imaginable.  I  never  wasted 
time  (in  the  worldly  sense  of  not  working  in  it)  as  at  pres- 
ent,— I  read  books  and  at  the  turning  of  every  page  go 
back  again  for  shame  .  .  the  words  only  before  the  eyes, 
the  thoughts  of  you  before  the  mind. 

I  found  a  new  litter  of  poetry  in  a  letter  of  our  inde- 
fatigable Bennett, — the  happy  man!  By  the  way  (a  very 
roundabout  one),  someone  mentioned  yesterday  as  an 
agreeable,  or  at  least  characteristic  trait  in  Sydney  Smith, 
that  after  dinner,  or  during  dinner,  he  would  occasionally 
pour  water  down,  or  up,  as  we  say,  his  coat-sleeves,  for 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  365 

coolness'  sake.  Nobody  made  a  remark — nor  spoke  of 
such  a  feat's  disqualifying  its  performer  from  going  into 
good  society.  Now  do  you  remember  poor  Home  and  the 
censorship  of  his  manners? — were  not  his  more  rational 
libations  found  abominable?  See  the  association — Bennett 
— Miss  Mitford — Home?  But  I  cannot  write  sensibly  to- 
day, nor  insensibly,  which  would  be  more  amusing  perhaps 
— I  can  only  know  I  am — here,  on  Sunday ! — and  whatever 
the  pen  may  force  itself  to  put  down,  my  one  thought  is, 
that  you  are  not  here.  To-morrow  I  shall  hear,  and  get 
fresh  strength  in  the  anticipation  of  Tuesday, — if  the  letter 
tells  me  you  are  well — the  '  headache  for  two  days,' — tell 
me,  my  own  Ba ! 

Bless  you,  ever  best  and  dearest. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  July  27,  1846.  J 

That  is  sufficient,  ever  dearest :  now  dismiss  the  matter 
from  your  thoughts,  as  I  shall — having  forced  myself  once 
to  admit  that  most  dreadful  of  possibilities  and  to  provide 
for  it,  I  need  not  have  compunction  at  dwelling  on  the 
brighter,  better  chances  which  God's  previous  dispensa- 
tions encourage  me  to  expect.  There  may  be  even  a  claim- 
ant, instead  of  a  recipient,  of  whatever  either  of  us  can  be- 
queath— who  knows?  For  which  reason,  but  most  of  all 
for  the  stronger  yourself  adduce — the  contingency  of  your 
illness — I  do  not  ask  you  to  '  relinquish  a  part ' — not  as 
our  arrangements  now  are  ordered :  for  I  have  never  been 
so  foolish  as  to  think  we  could  live  without  money,  if  not 
of  my  obtaining,  then  of  your  possessing,  and  though,  in 
certain  respects  I  should  have  preferred  to  try  the  first 
course, — at  the  beginning  at  least,  when  my  faculties 
seemed  more  my  own  and  that '  end  of  the  summer  '  had  a 
less  absorbing  interest  (as  I  perceive  now)  — yet,  as  that  is 
not  to  be,  I  have  only  to  be  thankful  that  you  are  not  de- 


366   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [July  27 

pendent  on  my  exertions, — which  I  could  not  be  sure  of, — 
particularly  with  this  uncertain  head  of  mine.  I  hope 
when  we  once  are  together,  the  world  will  not  hear  of  us 
again  until  +he  very  end — it  would  be  horrible  to  have  to 
come  back  +o  it  and  ask  its  help. 

I  wish  Mr.  Kenyon  had  paid  his  visit — our  Tuesday 
would  be  safer — I  shall  be  with  you  unless  a  letter  forbids. 
I  can  only  say  this  now,  because  I  expect  my  visitors  nearly 
directly, — Moxon  and  Forster,  do  you  remember?  And 
the  post  is  always  late  in  arriving  on  Mondays.  But  I 
should  fill  sheets  of  paper  to  no  purpose  if  I  thought  to 
tell  you  how  I  love  you—'  more  than  ever  ' — I  am  wholly 
your  own,  dearest  dearest. 

Pat  Flush  for  me — after  having  let  me  kiss  you,  Ba ! 


K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  July  28,  1846.] 

Ever  dearest,  your  '  Hush '  came  too  late.  I  had 
spoken.  Do  not  blame  me  however, — for  I  do  not  blame 
myself.  It  was  not  very  possible  that  I  should  allow  your 
fine  schemes  to  lie  unmolested  by  a  breath.  Nevertheless 
we  will  not  carry  on  this  discussion  any  farther :  my  simple 
protest  is  enough  for  the  present, — and  we  shall  have  time, 
I  hope,  in  the  future,  for  your  nobleness  to  unteach  itself 
from  being  too  proud.  At  any  rate,  let  the  subject  be, 
now !  I  mentioned  my  '  eldest  surviving  brother '  in  that 
way  in  the  paper,  because  he  is  put  out  of  the  question  by 
the  estates  being  entailed  .  .  the  Jamaica  estates,  I  mean. 
And  now,  to  have  done !     Unless  I  could  make  you  easier — / 

Dearest,  you  may  come  to-morrow,  Tuesday  .  .  for 
my  aunt  goes  out  and  we  shall  have  a  clear  ground.  Ah — ■ 
can  it  be  true  that  you  wish  me  to  be  with  you  so — dearest, 
dearest?  That  you  miss  me  as  you  say,  the  day  after? 
Yet  I  am  with  you  in  my  thoughts,  in  my  affections,  al- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  367 

ways.  Let  them  count  for  something,  that  it  may  not  be 
entirely  an  absence. 

Bennett  to  Bennett.  When  Wilson  brought  up  my 
coffee  on  the  little  tray  on  Saturday,  there  was  a  Bennett 
ready  on  one  corner.  Then  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you 
how  Mrs.  Paine  (you  remember  Mrs.  Paine?)  writes  of  you 
to  me,  .  .  speaking  what  she  little  knows  the  effects  of 
.  .  '  I  hope,'  she  says,  '  that  you  admire  '  Luria  '  greatly. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  will  call  it  a  sweeping  conclu- 
sion, but  I  feel  inclined  to  call  Browning  the  greatest  dra- 
matic genius  we  have  had  for  hundreds  of  years.'  Can 
anybody  be  more  than  the  '  greatest '  to  anybody  ?  Half 
inclined  I  might  be  to  be  jealous  of  my  prerogative  of 
knowing  you — yet  no.  Dearest  is  greater  than  Greatest 
.  .  even  if  one  Greatest  were  not  greater  than  another. 

As  to  my  headache,  you  might  as  well  enquire  about 
Troy — Fait.  It  was  the  air,  perhaps — the  heat  or  the  cold 
.  .  the  causes  are  forgotten  with  the  effects.  And,  since 
I  began  this  letter,  I  have  been  out  with  my  aunt  and 
Henrietta,  the  former  having  visits  to  pay  in  all  the  noisi- 
est streets  of  the  town,  as  appeared  to  me.  The  stone 
pavements  seemed  to  accumulate  on  all  sides  to  run  to 
meet  us,  and  I  was  stunned  and  giddy,  and  am  so  tired 
that  I  shall  finish  my  letter  in  a  hurry,  looking  to  to-mor- 
row. We  were  out  nearly  three  hours.  Think  of  travel- 
ling three  hours  in  a  '  Diligence, '  with  a  Clap  of  Thunder ! 
It  may  be  something  like  that!  And  as  we  were  coming 
homeward  .  .  there  was  Mr.  Kenyon!  He  shook  hands 
through  the  window  and  declared  that  he  was  on  the  point 
of  paying  a  visit  to  me,  holding  up  as  witness,  his  lump 
of  sugar  for  Plush  .  .  which  Plush  leapt  from  the  other 
side  of  the  carriage  to  accept,  ore  rotundo.  Then  the  next 
word  was  .  .  '  Did  you  see  our  friend  B  '  .  .  (pronounced 
Bee)  .  .  '  on  Saturday. ?  '  'No,' said  I  .  .  saying  no  for 
yes  in  the  confusion  .  .  .  '  but  I  shall  to-morrow. '  '  He 
dined  with  me,'  continued  Mr.  Kenyon.  The  sound  of 
which  struck  me  into  a  fit  of  clairvoyance  and  I  had  to 


368   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [July  28 

unsay  myself  with  an  '  Oh  yes — I  did  see  him  on  Satur- 
day.' Mr.  Kenyon  must  have  thought  me  purely  stupid 
or  foolish  or  something  of  the  sort — and  really  I  agree 
with  him.  To  imagine  my  telling  in  that  unsolicited  way, 
too,  both  to  my  aunt  and  himself,  that  you  were  coming 
here  to-morrow !  So  provoking !  Well — it  can't  be  helped. 
He  won't  come  to-morrow  in  any  case. 

And  you  will!  Dearest,  how  glad  I  am  that  you  are 
coming ! 

Being  your  own 
Ba. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  29,  1846.  ] 

Dearest,  as  I  lest  nearly  an  hour  of  you  to-day,  I  make 
amends  to  myself  by  beginning  to  write  to  you  as  if  I  had 
not  seen  you  at  all.  A  large  sheet  of  paper,  too,  has  flown 
into  my  hands — the  Fates  giving  ample  room  and  verge 
enough,  my  characters  .  .  not  '  of  Hell '  .  .  to  trace,  as  I 
am  not  going  to  swear  at  Mr.  Kenyon,  whatever  the  provo- 
cation !     Dear  Mr.  Kenyon  ! 

It  appears  that  he  talked  to  my  sisters  some  time  be- 
fore he  let  himself  be  announced  to  me — he  said  to  them 
'  I  want  to  talk  to  you  .  .  sit  down  by  me  and  listen. ' 
Then  he  began  to  tell  them  of  Mrs.  Jameson,  repeating 
what  you  told  me,  of  her  desire  to  take  me  to  Italy,  .  . 
and  of  her  earnestness  about  it.  To  which,  he  added,  he 
had  replied  by  every  representation  likely  to  defeat  those 
thoughts — that  only  a  relative  would  be  a  fit  companion 
for  me,  and  that  no  person  out  of  my  family  could  be  jus- 
tified in  accepting  such  a  responsibility,  on  other  grounds, 
entering  on  the  occurrences  of  last  year,  and  reasoning  on 
from  them  to  the  possibility  that  if  I  offended  by  an  act  of 
disobedience,  I  might  be  '  cast  off  '  as  for  a  crime.  Oh — • 
poor  Papa  was  not  spared  at  all — not  to  Mrs.  Jameson, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  369 

not  to  my  sisters.  Mr.  Kenyon  said  .  .  '  It  is  painful  to 
you  perhaps  to  hear  me  talk  so,  but  it  is  a  sore  subject 
with  me,  and  I  cannot  restrain  the  expression  of  my  opin- 
ions.'. He  '  had  told  Mrs.  Jameson  every  thing — it  was  due 
to  her  to  have  a  full  knowledge,  he  thought  .  .  and  he  had 
tried  to  set  before  her  the  impossibility  she  was  under,  of 
doing  any  good.'  Then  he  asked  my  sisters  .  .  if  I  ever 
spoke  of  Italy  .  .  if  they  thought  I  dwelt  on  the  idea  of 
it.  '  Yes, '  they  answered  '  in  their  opinion,  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  go. '  '  But  hoio  ?  what  is  the  practical  side 
of  the  question?  She  can't  go  alone — and  which  of  you 
will  go  with  her?  You  know,  last  year,  she  properly  re- 
jected the  means  which  involved  you  in  danger.'  Hen- 
rietta advised  that  nothing  should  be  said  or  done.  '  Ba 
must  do  everything  for  herself.  Her  friends  cannot  help 
her.  She  must  help  herself. '  '  But  she  must  not  go  to 
Italy  by  herself.  Then,  how  ?  '  '  She  has  determination 
of  character,'  continued  Henrietta — '  She  will  surprise 
overybody  some  day.' 

'But  hoiv?  ' — Mr.  Kenyon  repeated  .  .  looking  uneasy. 
(And  how  imprudent  of  Henrietta  to  say  that !  I  have  been 
scolding  her  a  little.) 

The  discussion  ended  by  his  instructing  them  to  tell  me 
of  Mrs.  Jameson's  proposal ;  '  because  it  was  only  right 
that  I  should  have  the  knowledge  of  her  generous  kind- 
ness, though  for  his  part,  he  did  not  like  to  agitate  me  by 
conversing  on  the  subject.' 

Yes,  one  thing  more  was  said.  He  mentioned  having 
had  some  conversation  with  my  uncle  Hedley,  who  was 
'  very  angry  '—and  he  asked  if  my  aunt  Hedley  had  no  in- 
fluence with  the  highest  authority.  My  sisters  answered 
in  the  negative.  And  this  is  all.  He  appears  to  have  no 
'  plan  '  of  his  particular  own. 

What  do  you  say,  Robert,  to  all  this?  Since  I  am 
officially  informed  of  Mrs.  Jameson's   goodness,  I  must 

thank   her  certainly — and  in  what  words?     '  How  '  / 

as  Mr.  Kenyon  asks.  Half  I  have  felt  inclined  to  write 
Vol.  II.— 24 


370  THE  LETTEKS  OF  BOBERT  BBOWNING   [July  28 

and  thank  her  gratefully,  and  confide  to  her,  not  the  se- 
cret itself,  but  the  secret  of  there  being  a  secret  with  the 
weight  of  which  I  am  unwilling  to  oppress  her  at  this  time. 
Could  it  be  done,  I  wonder?  Perhaps  not.  Yet  how  hard, 
how  very  difficult,  it  seems  to  me,  to  thank  her  worthily, 
and  be  silent  wholly  on  my  motives  in  rejecting  her  com- 
panionship !  And  a  ivJiole  confidence  now  is  dangerous 
.  .  would  torment  her  with  a  sense  of  responsibility. 
Think  which  way  it  should  be. 

Once  you  asked  me  about  joining  travelling-company 
with  Mrs.  Jameson.  Should  you  like  it?  prefer  it  for  any 
cause?  .  if  it  could  be  done  without  involving  her  in  trou- 
ble, of  course. 

Ah,  dearest  .  .  what  a  loss  the  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  were  to  me !  like  the  loss  of  four  quarters  of  a  moon 
on  a  dark  night!  When  dear  Mr.  Kenyon  came  to  me,  he 
found  me  with  my  thoughts  astray — following  you  up  the 
street !  He  asked  how  long  you  had  been  here  .  .  '  Some 
time,'  I  said — by  an  answer  made  to  fit  anything.  The 
rest  of  my  answers  were  not  so  apt ! — were  more  like  '  cross- 
questions,  '  perhaps,  than  answers  of  the  common.  But  he 
roused  me  a  little  by  telling  me  that  he  wanted  you  to 
'  make  an  excursion '  with  Landor  and  himself,  and  that 
you  did  not  '  encourage  the  idea  ' — and  by  proceeding  to 
tell  me  further,  that  at  a  dinner  the  other  day  at  his  house, 
your  poetry  being  taken  up  and  praised  to  the  right  meas- 
ure, before  that  wretched  Mr.  Reade,  he  wrote  a  letter  by 
the  morning's  post  to  Mr.  Kenyon,  to  express  a  regret  that 
he  (Mr.  Reade)  should  have  found  it  impossible  to  join  in 
the  plaudits  '  of  a  brother-bard, '  but  that  Edmund  Reade 
could  not  recognize  Robert  Browning  as  a  master-mind  of 
the  period,  '  for  reasons,  which  were  given  at  length. '  'He, 
(Robert  Browning)  had  never  rushed,  with  a  passionate 
genius,  into  the  production  of  long  poems '  .  .  (like 
'  Italy ')  '  and  long  dramas  .  .  (like  .  .  like  .  .  .  what's 
the  name  of  Mr.  Reade's  last?)  Poor,  wretched  man! 
Mr.  Kenyon  tore  up  the  letter  in  compassion  too  tender 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  371 

toward  humanity !     Also  he  told  me  your  excellent  story 
on  the  stairs. 

On  the  stairs !  I  heard  the  talking  aDd  the  laughing, 
and  felt  ready  to  cry  out  the  burden.  Well — ,  Saturday 
will  come,  as  surely  as  you  could  go.  May  God  bless  you, 
my  own! — are  you  my  own?  and  not  rather,  yes,  rather, 
far  rather,  I  am  your  own,  your  very  own 

Ba. 

I  doubb  your  being  able  to  read  what  is  written.  Only 
don't  send  the  '  manuscript '  to  Mr.  Forster,  to  be  inter- 
preted .  .  after  the  fashion  of  others ! 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  July  29,  1846.] 

This  is  just  the  way,  the  only  way,  my  ever,  ever  dear- 
est, you  make  cares  for  me — it  is  hard  to  dare  to  settle 
whether  the  pain  of  the  lost  quarters  of  the  hour  yesterday 
be  not  balanced  by  the  gladness  and  gain  of  this  letter ;  as 
it  is  hard  saying  whether  to  kiss  your  hand  (mind,  only 
the  hand !)  with  shut  eyes,  be  better  than  seeing  you  and 
only  seeing :  you  cause  me  abundance  of  such  troubles,  dear- 
est, best,  divinest  that  you  are !  Oh,  how  can  you,  bless- 
ing me  so,  speak  as  you  spoke  yesterday — for  the  first  time ! 
I  thought  you  would  only  write  such  suppositions,  such 
desires — (for  it  was  a  desire)  .  .  and  that  along  with  you 
I  was  safe  from  them, — yet  you  are  adorable  amid  it  all — 
only  I  do  feel  such  speaking,  Ba,  lightly  as  it  fell — no,  not 
now  I  feel  it, — this  letter  is  before  my  heart  like  the  hand  on 
my  eyes.  I  feel  this  letter,  only  how  good,  good,  good  of 
you  to  write  it !  Yes,  I  did  meet  Mr.  Keny on  on  the  stairs — 
with  a  half  opened  door  that  discovered  sundry  presences, 
and  then  had  I  to  speak  of  a  sudden — put  it  to  my  credit  on 
one  side  that  I  did  speak  and  laugh ;  and  on  the  other  side, 
that  I  did  neither  too  h  propos.     He  most  kindly  (seeing  it 


372    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [July  29 

all)  began  asking  about  Forster  and  Moxon — and  I  remem- 
ber some  kind  of  stammering  remark  of  the  latter  which  I 
retailed  .  .  to  the  effect  that  '  now  would  be  a  favourable 
time  to  print  a  volume  of  poems  '  this  I  did,  to  seem  to  have 
something  on  my  mind  calling  for  a  consultation  with  you ! 
Then  he  made  that  proposal  about  Landor  and  Mr.  Eagles 
.  .  whether  I  '  encouraged  the  idea, '  or  no,  it  encouraged 
me,  and  helped  me  a  good  deal  this  morning,  — for  Eliot 
Warburton  sent  two  days  ago  a  pressing  letter  to  invite  me 
to  go  to  Ireland, — I  should  have  yachting  and  other  de- 
lights,— and  I  was  glad  to  return  for  an  answer,  that  I 
had  an  engagement,  'conditional  on  my  accepting  any.' 
As  for  my  '  excellent  story  on  the  stairs  ' — you  alarm  me! 
Upon  my  honour,  I  have  not  the  least  recollection  of  hav- 
ing told  one,  or  said  another  word  than  the  above  men- 
tioned. So  people  are  congratulated  on  displaying  this  or 
the  other  bravery  in  battle  or  fire,  when  their  own  memory 
is  left  a  blank  of  all  save  the  confusion  !  Let  me  say  here, 
that  he  amused  me  also  with  the  characteristic  anecdote  of 
poor  Mr.  Reade,  on  Saturday. 

And — now !  now,  Ba,  to  the  subject-matter :  whatever 
you  decide  on  writing  to  Mrs.  Jameson  will  be  rightly 
written — it  seems  to  me  nearly  immaterial;  (putting  out  of 
the  question  the  confiding  the  whole  secret,  which,  from  its 
responsibility,  as  you  feel,  must  not  be  done)  whether  you 
decline  her  kindness  for  untold  reasons  which  two  months 
(Ba?)  will  make  abundantly  plain, — or  whether  you  farther 
inform  her  that  there  is  a  special  secret — of  which  she  must 
bear  the  burthen,  even  in  that  mitigated  form,  for  the  same 
two  months, — as  I  say,  it  seems  immaterial — but  it  is  most 
material  that  you  should  see  how  the  ground  is  crumbling 
from  beneath  our  feet,  with  its  chances  and  opportunities 
— do  not  talk  about '  four  months,' — till  December,  that  is 
— unless  you  mean  what  must  follow  as  a  consequence. 
The  next  thing  will  be  Mr.  Kenyon's  application  to  me — 
he  certainly  knows  everything  .  .  how  else,  after  such  a  speech 
from  your  sister?     But  his  wisdom  as  well  as  his  habits 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  373 

incline  him  to  use  the  force  that  is  in  kindness,  patience, 
gentleness :  your  father  might  have  entered  the  room  sud- 
denly yesterday  and  given  vent  to  all  the  passionate  in- 
dignation in  the  world.  I  dare  say  we  should  have  been 
married  to-day :  but  I  shall  have  the  quietest,  most  con- 
siderate of  expositions  made  me  (with  one  arm  on  my 
shoulder),  of  howl  am  sure  to  be  about  to  kill  you,  to 
ruin  you,  your  social  reputation,  your  public  estimation, 
destroy  the  peace  of  this  member  of  your  family,  the  pros- 
pects of  that  other, — and  the  end  will  be? 

Because  I  can  not  only  die  for  you  but  live  without  you 
for  you — once  sure  it  is  for  you :  I  know  what  you  once 
bade  me  promise — but  I  do  not  know  what  assurances  on 
assurance,  all  on  the  ground  of  a  presumed  knowledge  of 
your  good  above  your  own  possible  knowledge, — might  not 
effect !    I  do  not  know  ! 

This  is  through  you  !  You  ought  to  know  now  that  '  it 
would  not  be  better  for  me  to  leave  you  ' !  That  after  this 
devotion  of  myself  to  you  I  cannot  undo  it  all,  and  devote 
myself  to  objects  so  utterly  insignificant  that  yourself  do 
not  venture  to  specify  them — '  it  would  be  better — people 
will  say  such  things '  .  .  I  will  never  force  you  to  know 
this,  however — if  your  admirable  senses  do  not  instruct  you, 
I  shall  never  seem  to,  as  it  were,  threaten  you,  by  prophe- 
cies of  what  my  life  would  probably  be,  disengaged  from 
you — it  should  certainly  not  be  passed  where  the  '  people  ' 
are,  nor  where  their  '  sayings  '  influenced  me  any  more — 
but  I  ask  you  to  look  into  my  heart,  and  into  your  own 
belief  in  what  is  worthy  and  durable  and  the  better — and 
then  decide: — for  instance,  to  speak  of  waiting  for  four 
months  will  be  a  decision. 

See,  dearest — I  began  lightly, — I  cannot  end  so.  I 
know,  after  all,  the  words  were  divine,  self-forgetting  words 
— after  all,  that  you  are  mine,  by  the  one  tenure,  of  your 
own  free  gift,— that  all  the  other  words  have  not  been  mere 
breath,  nor  the  love,  a  playful  show,  an  acting,  an  error 
you  will  correct.     I  believe  in  you,  or  what  shall  I  believe 


374    THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [July  29 

in?  I  wish  I  could  take  my  life,  my  affections,  my  ambi- 
tions, all  my  very  self,  and  fold  over  them  your  little  hand, 
and  leave  them  there — then  you  would  see  what  belief  is 
mine !  But  if  jon  had  not  seen  it,  would  you  have  uttered 
one  word,  written  one  line,  given  one  kiss  to  me?  May 
God  bless  you,  Ba — 

KB. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  30,  1846.] 

c  Such  desires — (for  it  was  a  desire — ') 

Well  put  into  a  parenthesis  that  is ! — ashamed  and  hid- 
ing itself  between  the  brackets ! 

Because— my  own  dearest — it  was  not  a  c  desire  ' — it  was 
the  farthest  possible  from  being  a  '  desire  '  .  .  the  word  I 
spoke  to  you  on  Tuesday  .   .  yesterday ! 

And  if  I  spoke  it  for  the  first  time  instead  of  writing  it 

what  did  that  prove,  but  I  ivas  able  to  speak  it,  and  that 

just  it  was  so  much  less  earnest  and  painfully  felt?  Why 
it  was  not  a  proposition  even — .  I  said  only  '  You  had 
better  give  me  up ! '  It  was  only  the  reflection,  in  the  still 
water,  of  what  had  been  a  proposition.  '  Better '  perhaps ! — 
'  Better '  for  you,  that  you  should  desire  to  give  me  up  and 
do  it — my  'Idee  fixe  '  you  know.  But  said  with  such  dif- 
ferent feelings  from  those  which  have  again  and  again 
made  the  tears  run  down  my  cheeks  while  I  wrote  to  you 
the  vexatious  letter  .  .  .  that  I  smile  at  you  seeing  no 
difference.  You,  blind ! — ■  Which  is  wrong  of  me  again. 
I  will  not  smile  for  having  vexed  you  .  .  teased  you. 
Which  is  wrong  of  you,  though  .  .  the  being  vexed  for  so 
little !  because  '  you  ought  to  know  by  this  time  '  .  .  (now 
I  will  use  your  reproachful  words) — you  ought  certainly  to 
know  that  I  am  your  own,  and  ready  to  go  through  with 
the  matter  we  are  upon,  and  willing  to  leave  the  times  and 
the  seasons  in  your  hand!    Four  months!  meant  nothing 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  375 

at  all.  Take  September,  if  you  please.  All  I  thought  of 
answering  to  you,  was,  that  there  was  no  need  yet  of 
specifying  the  exact  time.     And  yet — • 

Ah — yes ! —  I  feel  as  yon  feel,  the  risks  and  the  diffi- 
culties which  close  around  us.  And  you  feel  that  about 
Mr.  Kenyon?  Is  it  by  an  instinct  that  I  tremble  to  think 
of  him,  more  than  to  think  of  others?  The  hazel-rod  turns 
round  in  my  hand  when  I  stand  here.  And  as  you  show 
him  speaking  and  reasoning  .  .  his  arm  laid  on  your 
shoulder  .  .  oh,  what  a  vision,  that  is !  before  that,  I  can- 
not stand  any  longer ! — it  takes  away  my  breath — the  likeli- 
hood of  it  is  so  awful  that  it  seems  to  promise  to  realise 
itself,  one  day ! 

But  you  promised.  I  have  your  solemn  promise,  Rob- 
ert !  If  ever  you  should  be  moved  by  a  single  one  of  those 
vain  reasons,  it  will  be  an  unfaithful  cruelty  in  you.  You 
will  have  trusted  another,  against  me.  You  would  not  do 
it,  my  beloved. 

For  I  have  none  in  the  world  who  will  hold  me  to  make 
me  live  in  it,  except  only  you.  I  have  come  back  for  you 
alone  .  .  at  your  voice  and  because  you  have  use  for  me ! 
I  have  come  back  to  live  a  little  for  you—  I  see  you.  My 
fault  is  .  .  not  that  I  think  too  much  of  what  people  will 
say.  I  see  you  and  hear  you.  '  People  '  did  not  make  me 
live  for  them.  I  am  not  theirs,  but  yours.  I  deserve  that 
you  should  believe  in  me,  beloved,  because  my  love  for  you 
m'Me: 

Now  tell  me  again  to  '  decide  ' — and  I  will  tell  you  that 
the  words  are  not  '  breath, '  nor  the  affection  '  a  show. ' 
Dearest  beyond  words,  did  I  deserve  you  telling  me  to 
'decide'? 

Let  it  be  September  then,  if  you  do  not  decide  other- 
wise— I  would  not  lean  to  dangerous  delays  which  are  un- 
necessary— I  wish  we  were  at  Pisa,  rather ! 

So  try  to  find  out  if  and  how  (certainly)  we  can  get  from 
Nevers  to  Chalons  .  .  I  could  not  to-day,  with  my  French 
travelling-book,  find  a  way,  either  by  the  chemin  de  fer  or 


376   THE  LETTERS  OP  ROBERT  BROWNING    [July  30 

coclie  d'eau. —  All  the  rest  is  easy  and  direct  .  .  and  very 
cheap.  We  must  not  hesitate  between  the  French  route 
and  the  sea  voyage. 

Now  I  will  tell  you  your  good  story.  You  said  that 
you  had  only  heard  six  words  from  Mr.  Reade — but  that 
they  were  characteristic.  Someone  was  talking  before  him 
and  you  of  the  illness  of  Anacreon  Moore — '  He  is  very  ill ' 
said  the  someone.     'But  he  is  no  poet '  said  Mr.  Reade. 

Isn't  it  a  good  story?  Mr.  Kenyon  called  it  '  exquis- 
ite. '  It  is  what  your  man  of  science  would  have  called  '  A 
beautiful  specimen  ' — now  isn't  it? 

May  God  bless  you,  dearest,  dearest ! —  I  owe  all  to 
you,  and  love  you  wholly — I  am  your  very  own— 


R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  July  30,  1846.] 

Now  you  are  my  very  own  best,  sweetest,  dearest  Ba — 
Do  you  think  after  such  a  letter  as  mine  any  amount  of 
confidence  in  my  own  intentions,  or  of  the  reasonableness 
of  being  earnest  on  such  a  subject,  can  avail  to  save  me 
from  mortal  misgivings?  I  should  not  have  said  those 
words,  certainly  I  should  not — but  you  forgive  them  and 
me,  do  you  not? 

It  was  through  seeing  the  peril  about  Mr.  Kenyon  just 
as  you  see  it;  but  do  not  suppose  I  could  break  my 
promise, — to  every  point  urged  after  that  sad  irresistible 
fashion,  my  answer  would  be, — would  in  the  end  amount 
to, — '  provided  she  consents. '  And  then  he  would  return 
to  you,  put  away  altogether  the  arguments  just  used  to  me, 
take  up  in  their  stead  the  corresponding  ones  founded  on 
my  interests  as  he  would  profess  to  understand  them,  and 
the  result  would  be  that  a  similar  answer  would  be  obtained 
from  you, — which  he  would  call  your  '  consent.'  This  is 
not  what  I  fear  noiv, — oh,  no!— but  the  fancy  that  I  was 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  377 

frightened  by,  yesterday,  while  I  wrote.  Now,  I  seem  to 
have  my  powers  about  me,  and  could  get  to  the  truth  and 
hold  by  it  through  every  difficulty, — and  if  I,  how  much 


more  you 


Then,  this  is  expecting  the  worst  of  Mr.  Kenyon, — and 
the  best  is  at  least  as  likely.  In  any  case,  one  may  be  sure 
of  cautions  and  warnings  and  a  wise,  good,  shaking  of  the 
head — he  is  none  of  the  ardent  anticipators  of  exuberant 
happiness  from  any  scheme  begun  and  ended  here  below. 
But  after  that, — why,  ours  is  the  only  thoroughly  rational 
match  that  ever  came  under  my  notice,  and  he  is  too  clever 
not  to  see  some  justification  in  it.  At  all  events,  he  will 
say  '  we  shall  see ! ' — whether  he  sigh  or  smile  in  the  say- 
ing— and  if  he  waits,  he  ivill  see. 

And  we  will  '  decide  '  on  nothing,  being  sure  of  the  one 
decision — I  mean,  that,  if  the  summer  be  long,  and  likely 
to  lead  in  as  fine  an  Autumn,  and  if  no  new  obstacles  arise, 
— September  shall  go  as  it  comes,  and  October  too,  if  your 
convenience  is  attained  thereby  in  the  least  degree,— after- 
ward, you  will  be  all  my  own,  all  your  days  and  hours  and 
minutes.  I  forgot,  by  the  way,  to  reply  to  your  question 
concerning  Mrs.  J .—if there  is  good  to  you,  decided  or  even 
not  impossible  good — of  course,  let  her  be  with  us  if  she 
will,  otherwise,  oh  let  us  be  alone,  Ba !  I  find  by  the  first 
map,  that  from  Nevers  the  Loire  proceeds  S.E.  till  the 
Arroax  joins  it,  and  that  just  below  it  communicates  with 
the  Canal  du  Centre,  which  runs  N.E.  from  Paray  to 
Chagny  and  thence  to  Chalons  sur  Saone.  It  is  a  round- 
about way,  but  not  more  so  than  the  post-road  hj  Autun — 
the  Canal  must  be  there  for  something,  and  in  that  case, 
you  travel  from  Orleans  to  Leghorn  by  water  and  with  the 
least  fatigue  possible.  I  observe  that  steam-boats  leave 
St.  Katherine's  Wharf  every  Thursday  and  Sunday  morn- 
ing at  8  o'clock  for  Havre,  Kouen  and  Paris — would  that 
way  be  advisable?  I  will  ascertain  the  facts  about  Nevers 
and  Chalons  by  the  time  we  meet. 

.  Dearest  Ba,  my  very  own,  I  love  you  with  a  love — not 


378   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  30 

to  die  before  any  sorrow !  perhaps  that  is  the  one  remain- 
ing circumstance  of  power  to  heighten  it !  May  God  bless 
you  for  me — 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  July  31,  1846.] 

Well,  then, — it  wasn't,  after  all,  so  extravagant  of  me 
to  make  the  proposition  about '  four  months?  '  How  inno- 
cent people  may  be  treated  like  guilty  ones,  through  no 
mistake  even,  of  theirs ! 

But  I  hold  to  my  first  impression  about  Mr.  Kenyon, 
whatever  your  second  ones  may  be.  I  know  him  entirely, 
and  his  views  of  life,  and  his  terrors  of  responsibility  .  . 
his  irresolution,  his  apprehensiveness.  He  never  would 
'  shake  his  head '  good-naturedly,  .  .  until  he  could  do 
nothing  else.  Just  in  proportion  to  the  affection  he  bears 
each  of  us,  would  he  labour  to  drive  us  apart.  And  by  the 
means  you  describe !  And  we  who  can  foresee  and  analyze 
those  means  from  this  distance,  would  not,  either  of  us, 
resist  the  actual  process !  There  .  .  do  not  suffer  your- 
self, ever  dearest,  to  be  drawn  into  any  degree  of  confidence 
there!  It  would  end  miserably,  I  know  .  .  see  .  .  am 
confidently  sure.  Let  him,  on  the  contrary,  see  the  thing 
done,  before  he  sees  it  at  all,  and  then  he  will  see  the  best 
of  it  .  .  the  good  in  it  .  .  then  we  shall  stand  on  the  sun- 
shiny side  of  his  philosophy  and  have  all  the  benefit  of 
that,  instead  of  having  to  endure,  as  we  should  now,  the 
darkness  of  his  irresolution  and  the  weight  of  his  over-cau- 
tion. Observe  of  dear  Mr.  Kenyon,  that,  generous  and 
noble  as  he  is,  he  fears  like  a  mere  man  of  the  world.  More- 
over he  might  find  very  rational  cause  for  fearing,  in  a  dis- 
tant view  of  this  .  .  '  most  rational '  of  marriages ! — oh, 
but  I  am  wrong  in  my  quotation ! — this  only  rational  mar- 
riage that  ever  was  heard  of ! —  !  !— it  is  so,  I  think. 

Where  did  you  guess  that  I  was  to-day?  In  Westmin- 
ster Abbey  !    But  we  were  there  at  the  wrong  hour,  as  the 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  379 

service  was  near  to  begin  .  .  and  I  was  so  frightened  of 
the  organ,  that  I  hurried  and  besought  my  companions  out 
of  the  door  after  a  moment  or  two.  Frightened  of  the 
organ !— yes,  just  exactly  that — and  you  may  laugh  a  little 
as  they  did.  Through  being  so  disused  to  music,  it  affects 
me  quite  absurdly.  Again  the  other  day,  in  the  drawing 
room,  because  my  cousin  sang  a  song  from  the  '  Puritani,' 
of  no  such  great  melancholy,  I  had  to  go  away  to  finish  my 
sobbing  by  myself.  Which  is  all  foolish  and  absurd,  I 
know — but  people  cannot  help  their  nerves — and  I  was 
ready  to  cry  to-day,  only  to  think  of  the  organ,  without 
hearing  it —  I,  who  do  not  cry  easily,  either !  and  all  Ara- 
bel's  jests  about  how  I  was  sure  of  my  life  even  if  I  should 
hear  one  note,  .  .  did  not  reassure  me  in  the  least.  We 
walked  within  the  chapel  .  .  merely  within  .  .  and  looked 
up  and  looked  down !  How  grand — how  solemn !  Time  it- 
self seemed  turned  to  stone  there !  Then  we  stood  where  the 
poets  were  laid — oh,  it  is  very  fine — it  is  better  than  Lau- 
reateships  and  pensions.  Do  you  remember  what  is  writ- 
ten on  Spenser's  monument — '  Here  lyeth,  in  expectation  of 
the  second  coming  of  Jesus  Christ,  .  .  Edmond  Spenser, 
having  given  proof  of  his  divine  spirit  in  his  poems ' — 
something  to  that  effect ;  and  it  struck  me  as  being  earnest 
and  beautiful,  and  as  if  the  writer  believed  in  him.  We 
should  not  dare,  nowadays,  to  put  such  words  on  a  poet's 
monument.  We  should  say  .  .  the  author  of  such  a  book 
.  .  at  most!  Michael  Drayton's  inscription  has  crept 
back  into  the  brown  heart  of  the  stone  .  .  all  but  the  name 
and  a  date,  which  somebody  has  renewed  with  black 
lines  .  .  black  as  ink. 

Dearest,  it  will  not  do  at  all  .  .  the  going  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  could  not  leave  this  house — 
it  would  not  be  possible.  And  then,  why  should  we  wish 
even,  for  that  long  passage  to  no  end;  Southampton  or 
Brighton  being,  each  of  them,  accessible  and  unobjection- 
able. As  for  the  expense,  it  is  nearly  equal,  by  railway 
or  sea. 


380   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [July  80 

For  Mrs.  Jameson,  I  mentioned  her  because  you  did 
once,  and  because  her  being  so  kind  reminded  me  of  it. 
I  thought  perhaps  you  might  like  her  being  with  us  (how 
should  1  know?),  in  which  case  .  .  Well — but  you  do  not 
wish  it,  .  .  and  indeed  I  do  not.  Therefore  she  shall  go 
by  herself  .  .  dear  Mrs.  Jameson  .  .  I  will  however  write 
to  her,  which  I  have  not  done  yet.  It  is  not  so  easy  as  you 
think,  perhaps,  to  write  at  once  so  much  and  so  little. 

Why  not  tell  me  how  you  are,  Robert?     When  you  do 
not,  I  fancy  that  you  are  not  well !     Say  how  you  are,  and 
love  me  till  Saturday — and  even  afterwards. 
Your  very  own  Ba. 

As  to  forgiveness — ought  I  to  have  been  angry  when  I 
was  not?  All  I  felt  in  that  letter,  was,  that  you  loved  me — 
and  as  to  your  pretending  to  think  that  it  was  '  show  and 
acting '  on  my  part,  I  knew  you  did  not  realty,  and  could 
not: — but  at  any  rate  I  was  the  farthest  possible  from 
being  angry — and  the  very  farthest  possible,  peradventure ! 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  July  31,  1846.] 

Dearest  Ba,  the  love  luas  as  you  admit,  beneath  all  the 
foolish  words — I  will  lay  your  pardon  to  my  heart  with  the 
other  blessings.  All  tlus  missing  of  instant  understanding 
—  (for  it  does  not  amount  to  Misunderstanding) — comes  of 
letters,  and  our  being  divided.  In  my  anxiety  about  a 
point,  I  go  too  much  on  the  other  side  from  mere  earnest- 
ness, ■ — as  if  the  written  words  had  need  to  make  up  in 
force  what  they  want  in  sound  and  promptness — and  as- 
suredly if  I  had  received  such  an  impression  directly  from 
your  suggestion  (since  not  a  '  desire,' — you  dear,  dear  Ba !) 
I  should  have  begun  at  once  to  ask  and  argue  .  .  whereas, 
it  was  only  to  the  memory  of  what  you  said,  an  after  im- 
pression, that  I  wrote  in  answer.  Well,  I  will  certainly 
1  love  you  till  Saturday, — and  even  after.' 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  381 

Did  you  indeed  go  to  the  Abbey  ?  How  right  to  go ! 
Every  such  expedition  is  the  removal  of  a  world  of  appre- 
hension. And  why  not  accept  Mrs.  Jameson's  offer  now, 
stipulating  for  privacy,  and  go  and  see  the  Museum, — the 
Marbles?  And  the  National  Gallery,  and  whatever  you 
would  wish  to  see.  At  Pisa,  Ba,  the  Cathedral  will  be 
ours,  wholly — divinely  beautiful  it  is — more  impressive  in 
itself  than  the  Florence  Duomo — and  then  the  green  grass 
round,  over  the  pavement  it  hides. 

And  considerably  more  impressive  than  the  party  at 
Mrs.  Milner  Gibson's  last  night — whereof  I  made  one 
through  a  sudden  goodnatured  invitation  which  only  came 
yesterday — so  I  went  '  for  reasons. '  Chorley  was  there, 
looking  very  tired  as  he  said  he  was.  I  left  very  early, 
having  accomplished  my  purpose. 

You  know  you  are  right,  and  that  I  knew  you  to  be 
right  about  Mr.  Kenyon — no  confidence  shall  I  make  to 
him,  be  assured — but  in  the  case  of  a  direct  application, 
with  all  those  kind  apologies  in  case  his  suspicion  should 
be  wrongly  excited,  what  should  I  say? — to  Mr.  Kenyon, 
with  his  kindness  and  its  right,  mind — not  to  any  other 
inquirer — think  of  the  facilities  during  the  week  among  the 
Quantock  Hills !  But  no  matter,  — nothing  but  your  own 
real,  unmistakable  consent,  divides  us — I  believe  nothing 
till  that  comes.  The  Havre  voyage  was  of  course  merely 
a  fact  noted — all  courses,  ways,  routes  are  entirely  the 
same  to  me. 

Thank  you,  dearest — I  am  very  much  better,  well,  in- 
deed— so  said  my  doctor  who  came  last  evening  to  see  my 
father,  whose  eye  is  a  little  inflamed — so  shall  Ba  see,  but 
not  take  the  trouble  to  say,  when  I  rejoice  in  her  presence 
to-morrow.  Dearest,  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart  and 
soul — may  God  bless  you — 


882  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  3 


K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday  Morning  and  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  August  3,  1846.] 

Ever  dearest,  you  were  wet  surely  ?  The  rain  came  be- 
fore you  reached  the  front  door;  and  for  a  moment  (before 
I  heard  it  shut)  I  hoped  you  might  return.  Dearest,  how 
I  blame  myself  for  letting  you  go — for  not  sending  you  a 
cab  in  despite  of  you !  I  was  frightened  out  of  all  wisdom 
by  the  idea  of  who  was  down-stairs  and  listening  perhaps, 
and  watching — as  if  the  cab  would  have  made  you  appear 
more  emphatically  you  !  And  then  you  said  '  the  rain  was 
over ' — and  I  believed  you  as  usual.  If  this  isn't  a  prece- 
dent of  the  evils  of  too  much  belief  .  .  .    !  ! 

Altogether,  yesterday  may  pass  among  the  '  unsatisfac- 
tory days,'  I  think — for  if  I  was  not  frightened  of  the 
storm,  and  indeed  I  was  not,  much — of  the  state  of  affairs 
down  in  the  provinces,  I  was  most  sorely  frightened — un- 
easy the  whole  time.  I  seem  to  be  with  you,  Robert,  at 
this  moment,  more  than  yesterday  I  was  .  .  though  if  I 
look  up  now,  I  do  not  see  you  sitting  there ! — but  when  you 
sate  there  yesterday,  I  was  looking  at  Papa's  face  as  I  saw 
it  through  the  floor,  and  now  I  see  only  yours. 

Dearest,  he  came  into  the  room  at  about  seven,  before 
he  went  to  dinner — I  was  lying  on  the  sofa  and  had  on  a 
white  dressing  gown,  to  get  rid  of  the  strings  .  .  so  op- 
pressive the  air  was,  for  all  the  purifications  of  lightning. 
He  looked  a  little  as  if  the  thunder  had  passed  into  him, 
and  said,  '  Has  this  been  your  costume  since  the  morning, 
pray?' 

'  Oh  no  ' — I  answered —  '  Only  just  now,  because  of 
the  heat.' 

'Well,'  he  resumed,  with  a  still  graver  aspect  .  .  (so 
displeased  he  looked,  dearest !)  '  it  appears,  Ba,  that  that 
man  has  spent  the  whole  day  with  you.'  To  which  I  re- 
plied as  quietly  as  I  could,   that  you  had  several  times 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  383 

meant  to  go  away,  but  that  the  rain  would  not  let  you, — 
and  there  the  colloquy  ended.  Brief  enough — but  it  took 
my  breath  away  .  .  or  what  was  left  by  the  previous  fear. 
And  think  how  it  must  have  been  a  terrible  day,  when  the 
lightning  of  it  made  the  least  terror. 

I  was  right  too  about  the  message — he  took  up  the  fancy 
that  I  might  be  ill  perhaps  with  fear  .  .  '  and  only  Mr. 
Browning  in  the  room  ' !  !  which  was  not  to  be  permitted. 
He  was  peremptory  with  Arabel,  she  told  me. 

Well — we  need  not  talk  any  more  of  it — it  has  made  one 
of  us  uncomfortable  long  enough.  Shall  you  dare  come 
on  Tuesday  after  all?  He  will  be  out.  If  he  is  not — if  my 
aunt  should  not  be  .  .  if  a  new  obstacle  should  occur  .  . 
why  you  shall  hear  on  Tuesday.  At  any  rate  I  shall  write, 
I  think.  He  did  not  see  you  go  yesterday — he  had  him- 
self preceded  you  by  an  hour  .  .  at  five  o'clock  .  .  which 
if  it  had  been  known,  would  have  relieved  me  infinitely. 
Yet  it  did  not  prevent  .  .  you  see  .  .  the  appalling  com- 
mentary at  seven —     No. 

With  all  the  rest  I  am  afraid  besides  of  Mr.  Chorley  and 
his  idea  about  your  '  mysteriousness. '  Let  Mr.  Kenyon 
hold  that  thread  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  the  thread 
Henrietta  gave  him  so  carelessly,  why  he  need  not  ask  you 
for  information — which  reminds  me  of  the  case  you  put  to 
me,  Robert — and  certainly  you  could  not  help  a  confession, 
in  such  possible  circumstances.  Only,  even  granting  the 
circumstances,  you  need  not  confess  more  than  is  wrung 
from  you — need  you?    Because  Mr.  Kenyon  would  undo  us. 

Before  yesterday's  triple  storms,  I  had  a  presentiment 
which  oppressed  me  during  two  days  .  .  a  presentiment 
that  it  would  all  end  ill,  through  some  sudden  accident  or 
misery  of  some  kind.  What  is  the  use  of  telling  you  this? 
I  do  not  know.  I  will  tell  you  besides,  that  it  cannot  .  . 
shall  not  .  .  be,  by  my  fault  or  failing.  I  may  be  broken 
indeed,  but  never  bent. 

If  things  should  go  smoothly,  however,  I  want  to  say 
one  word,  once  for  all,  in  relation  to  them.     Once  or  twice 


384  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  3 

you  have  talked  as  if  a  change  were  to  take  place  in  your 
life  through  marrying — whereas  I  do  beg  you  to  keep  in 
mind  that  not  a  pebble  in  the  path  changes,  nor  is  pushed 
aside  because  of  me.  If  you  should  make  me  feel  myself 
in  the  way,  should  I  like  it,  do  you  think?  And  how  could 
I  disturb  a  single  habit  or  manner  of  yours  .  .  as  an  un- 
married man  .  .  though  being  within  call — I?  The  best 
of  me  is,  that  I  am  really  very  quiet  and  not  difficult  to 
content — having  not  been  spoilt  by  an  excess  of  prosperity 
even  in  little  things.  It  will  be  prosperity  in  the  greatest, 
if  you  seem  to  be  happy — believe  that,  and  leave  all  the 
rest.  You  will  go  out  just  as  you  do  now  .  .  when  you 
choose,  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  without  need  of  a 
word — you  will  be  precisely  as  you  are  now  in  everything, 
— lord  of  the  house-door-key,  and  of  your  own  ways — so 
that  when  I  shall  go  to  Greece,  you  shall  not  feel  yourself 
much  better  off  than  before  I  went.  That  shall  be  a 
reserved  vengeance,  Robert. 

While  I  write,  comes  Mr.  Kenyon, — and  through  a 
special  interposition  of  guardian-angels,  he  has  broken  his 
spectacles  and  carries  them  in  his  hand.  On  which  I 
caught  at  the  opportunity  and  told  him  that  they  were  the 
most  unbecoming  things  in  the  world,  and  that  fervently 
(and  sincerely)  I  hoped  never  to  see  them  mended.  The 
next  word  was  .  .  'Did  you  see  Browning  yesterday?' 
'  Yes.  '  '  I  thought  so,  I  intended  to  come  myself,  but  I 
thought  it  probable  that  he  would  be  here,  and  so  I  stayed 
away — ■' 

Now 1  confess  to  you  that  that  thought  carries  me 

a  good  way  over  to  your  impression.  It  is  at  least  '  suspi- 
cious, '  that  he  who  knew  you  were  with  me  on  Saturday 
and  Tuesday  should  expect  to  find  you  again  on  the  next 
Saturday.  '  Oh — how  uncomfortable  ' — the  miracle  of  the 
broken  spectacles  not  saving  one  from  the  discomfort  of 
the  position  open  to  the  bare  eyes ! — 

He  talked  of  you  a  little — asked  what  you  were  doing 
— praised  you  as  usual  .  .  for  inexhaustible  knowledge 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  385 

and  general  reasonableness,  this  time.  Did  I  not  think 
so?     Yes — of  course  I  thought  so. 

Presently  he  made  me  look  aghast  by  just  this  question 
— '  Is  there  an  attachment  between  your  sister  Henrietta 
and  Capt.  Cook?  ' — (put  as  abruptly  as  I  put  it  here). 

My  heart  leapt  up — as  "Wordsworth's  to  the  rainbow  in 
the  sky — but  there  was  a  recoil  in  my  leap.  '  Why,  Mr. 
Kenyon?  '—I  said  .  .  '  what  extraordinary  questions, 
opening  into  unspeakable  secrets,  you  do  ask.' 

'  But  I  did  not  know  that  it  was  a  secret.  How  was  I 
to  know?  I  have  seen  him  here  very  often,  and  it  is  a 
natural  enquiry  which  I  might  have  put  to  anybody  in  the 
house  touchiug  a  matter  open  to  general  observation.  I 
thought  the  affair  might  be  an  arranged  one  by  anybody's 
consent. ' 

'But  you  ought  to  know,'  I  answered,  '  that  such  things 
are  never  permitted  in  this  house.  So  much  for  the  con- 
sent. As  for  the  matter  itself  you  are  right  in  your  sup- 
position— but  ifc  is  a  great  secret, — and  I  entreat  you  not 
to  put  questions  about  it  to  anybody  in  or  out  of  the  house. ' 
Something  to  that  effect  I  believe  I  said — I  was  frightened 
.  .  frightened  .  .  and  not  exactly  for  Henrietta.  What 
did  he  mean? —     Had  he  too  in  his  mind  .  .  . 

He  touched  on  Mrs.  Jameson  .  .  just  touched  .  .  He 
had  desired  my  sisters  to  tell  me.  He  thought  I  had  bet- 
ter write  a  note  to  thank  her  for  her  kindness.  He  had 
told  her  that  if  I  had  any  thoughts  of  Italy  the3r  could  be 
accomplished  only  by  a  sea-voyage,  which  was  impossible 
to  her. 

I  briefly  expressed  a  sense  of  the  kindness  and  said  that 
I  meant  to  write.  On  which  the  subject  was  changed  in 
mutual  haste,  as  seemed  to  me. 

Is  not  this  the  book  of  the  chronicles?  .  .  And  you 
shall  hear  again  on  Tuesday,  if  the  post  should  be  faithful 
to  me  that  morning.  I  might  be  inclined  to  put  off  our 
Tuesday's  meeting,  but  Mrs.  Hedley  remains  in  London 
for  a  few  days  after  her  daughter's  marriage,  and  '  means 
Vol.  II.— 25 


386  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  3 

to  see  a  great  deal '  of  me — therefore  Wednesday,  Thurs- 
day, Friday,  .  .  where   should  we  look,  from  Tuesday? 
but  I  must  consider  and  will  write.     May  God  bless  you! 
Do  say  how  you  are  after  that  rain.     The  storm  is  calm, 
and  ever  and  ever  I  am  your  own  Ba 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  August  3,  1846.] 

What  can  I  tell  you,  ever  dearest,  while  I  am  expecting 
all  you  are  to  tell  me  ?  I  will  not  conjecture,  nor  be  afraid 
(for  you)  before  the  time — I  felt  your  dear  hand  press 
mine  closer  while  the  thunder  sounded — so  it  will  always 
be,  I  know,  in  life,  in  death — and  when  a  thunder  shall 
break,  of  a  kind  that  I  can  fear,  I  will  hold  your  hand,  my 
Ba.  Perhaps  there  is  nothing  formidable  here  .  .  indeed 
there  can  hardly  be — tell  me  all.  I  got  to  your  Hodgson's, 
waited  a  few  minutes  till  a  cab  passed,  and  then  was  prop- 
erly deposited  at  the  Haymarket.  The  streets,  at  least  the 
roads  out  of  Town,  were  flooded — very  canals.  Here,  at 
home  our  skjdight  was  broken, — and  our  chimneys  behaved 
just  as  yours. 

And  now — shall  I  see  you  really  on  Tuesday  after  this 
Saturday  of  perils?  And  how  will  your  head  be, — your 
health  in  general  be,  you  sweetest  Ba?  Is  it  the  worse  for 
the  storm  and  the  apprehension, — to  say  nothing  of  what 
may  have  followed?  Oh,  if  but  a  '  sign  '  might  be  vouch- 
safed me — if  I  might  go  to  Wimpole  Street  presently,  and 
merely  know  by  the  disposition  of  a  blind  or  of  a  shutter, 
that  you  were  better,  or  no  worse !  I  ought  to  have  con- 
trived something  of  the  kind  yesterday — but  '  presence 
of  mind ' ! 

Ba,  I  have  been  reading  those  poems — now  to  speak 
soberly — I  had  no  conception,  Mrs.  Butler  could  have 
written  anything  so  mournfully  mediocre  .  .  to  go  as 
near  flattery  as  I  can.    W7ith  the  exception  of  three  or  four 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  387 

pieces  respectable  from  their  apparent  earnestness,  all  that 
album  writing  about  '  sprites, '  and  the  lily-bell,  and 
'wishes' — now  to  be  dead  and  now  alive, — descriptions 
without  colour,  songs  without  tune, — why,  Bennett  towers 
above  it !  Either  Bennett — for  the  one  touch  you  recorded, 
'  I  will  not  be  forgot ' — seems  grandly  succinct  contrasted 
with 

Yet  not  in  tears  remembered  be  my  name — 
Weep  over  those  ye  loved — for  me,  for  me, 
Give  me  the  wreath  of  glory  and  let  fame 
Over  my  tomb  spread  immortality. 

How  many  of  these  unfortunate  Sundays  are  in  store 
for  me,  I  wonder — eight  or  nine,  then  the  two  months  .  . 
'  when  constant  faith  and  holy  hope  shall  die, '  one  lost  in 
certainty  and  one  in  the  deep  deep  joy  of  the  ever  present 
ever  dearest  Ba !    Oh,  Ba,  how  I  love  you ! 

Your  own  K. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  3,  1846.] 

Oh,  the  comfort  you  are  to  me,  Ba — the  perpetual 
blessing  and  sustainment !  And  what  a  piece  of  you,  how 
instinct  with  you,  this  letter  is !  I  will  not  try  to  thank 
you,  but  my  whole  life  shall. 

See !  Noio  talk  of  '  three  or  four  months  ' !  And  is  not 
the  wonder,  that  this  should  wait  for  the  eighty-second 
visit  to  happen?  Or  could  anything  be  more  fortunate, 
more  mitigating  than  the  circumstances  under  which  it  did 
happen  at  last?  The  rain  and  thunder, — the  two  hours 
(see  the  accounts — nothing  like  it  has  been  known,  for 
years),  at  most,  proved  against  us, — the  ignorance  of  the 
visits  last  week — in  spite  of  all  which,  see  what  comes  and 
is  likely  to  come ! 

Let  me  say  at  once  that,  at  the  worst,  it  may  come ! 
You  have  had  time  to  know  enough  of  me,  my  Ba, — and 


388  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  3 

I,  who  from  the  first  knew  you,  have  taken  one  by  one 
your  promises  from  your  lips,— I  believe  what  you  write 
here ;  I  accept  it  as  the  foundation  of  all  my  future  happi- 
ness— '  you  will  never  fail  me  ' — I  will  never  fail  you, 
clearest  dearest. 

How  you  have  mistaken  my  words,  whatever  they  may 
have  been,  about  the  '  change '  to  be  expected  in  my  life ! 
I  have,  most  sincerely  I  tell  you,  no  one  habit  nor  manner 
to  change  or  persevere  in, — if  you  once  accept  the  general 
constitution  of  me  as  accordant  to  yours  in  a  sufficient  de- 
gree,— my  incompleteness  with  your  completeness,  dear- 
est,— there  is  no  further  difficulty.  I  want  to  be  a  Poet — 
to  read  books  which  make  wise  in  their  various  ways,  to 
see  just  so  much  of  nature  and  the  ways  of  men  as  seems 
necessary — and  having  done  this  already  in  some  degree, 
I  can  easily  and  cheerfully  afford  to  go  without  any  or  all 
of  it  for  the  future,  if  called  upon, — and  so  live  on,  and 
'  use  up, '  my  past  acquisitions  such  as  they  are.  I  will 
go  to  Pisa  and  learn, — or  stay  here  and  learn  in  another 
way — putting,  as  I  always  have  done,  my  whole  pride,  if 
that  is  the  proper  name,  in  the  being  able  to  work  with 
the  least  possible  materials.  There  is  my  scheme  of  life 
luithout  you,  before  you  existed  for  me ;  prosecuted  hith- 
erto with  every  sort  of  weakness,  but  always  kept  in  view 
and  believed  in.  Now  then,  please  to  introduce  Ba,  and 
say  what  is  the  habit  she  changes?  But  do  not  try  to  say 
what  divinest  confirmation  she  brings  to  '  whatever  is  good 
and  holy  and  true  '  in  this  scheme,  because  even  She  can- 
not say  that!  All  the  liberty  and  forbearance  .  .  most 
graceful,  most  characteristic  of  you,  sweet!  But  why 
should  I  play  with  you,  at  taking  what  I  mean  to  give 
again? — or  rather,  what  it  would  be  a  horror  to  have  to 
keep — why  make  fantastic  stipulations  only  to  have  the 
glory  of  not  abiding  by  them?  If  I  may  speak  of  my  own 
desires  for  a  moment  unconnected  with  your  happiness, — 
of  what  I  want  for  myself,  purely — what  I  mean  by  marry- 
ing you, — it  is,  that  I  may  be  with  you  forever — I  cannot 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  389 

have  enough  of  you  in  any  other  relation :  why  then  should 
I  pretend  to  make  reservations  and  say  '  Yes,  you  shall  de- 
prive me  of  yourself '  (of  your  sympathy,  of  your  know- 
ledge, and  good  wishes,  and  counsel)  on  such  and  such 
occasions?  But  I  feel  your  entire  goodness,  dear  angel 
of  my  life, — ever  more  I  feel  it,  though  all  seems  felt  and 
recorded. 

And  now  of  your  '  chronicling  ' — of  course  Mr.  Kenyon 
hwws — and  this  is  the  beginning  of  his  considerate,  cau- 
tious kindness — he  has  determined  to  hurry  nothing,  in- 
terfere abruptly  in  no  case,  to  make  you  infer  rather  than 
pretend  to  instruct  you — as  you  must, — for  '  if  the  visits 
of  Captain  Cook  have  that  appearance  &c,  must  not  those 
of  R.B.  &c,  &c.,'  So,  this  is  not  from  Chorley's  infor- 
mation, mind,  but  from  his  own  spectacled  acumen. 

After  this,  it  seems  very  natural  to  remark  that  the 
Havre  packets  leave  now  at  nine  instead  of  eight  o'clock 
on  Thursdays  and  Sundays — while  the  departures  from 
Southampton  are  on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays.  My  present- 
iment is  that  suddenly  you  will  be  removed  to  Devonshire 
or  Sussex  or — .  In  which  case,  our  difficulties  will  multi- 
ply considerably — be  prepared  for  such  events ! 

And  for  to-morrow — only  think  of  yourself,  lest  you 
should  forget  my  interests :  pray  write  to-night,  if  but  two 
or  three  words.  If  I  am  allowed  to  call,  I  will  bring  Mrs. 
Butler's  book  in  a  cover,  and,  if  I  find  a  note  from  you, 
leave  that,  as  an  excuse  for  the  knock.  Will  you  contrive 
that  a  note  shall  be  ready — in  case  of  your  Aunt's  presence 
&c.  If  it  saves  you  from  a  danger,  let  me  stay  away — 
until  the  letters  stop,  I  can  bear  absence  till  the  hvo  months 
end — any  such  journey  as  I  apprehend  would  be  most 
annoying,  deplorable  indeed. 

Would  you  not,  if  the  worst  came, — ivhat  would 
you  do? 

May  God  bless  you,  infinitely  bless  you,  ever  dearest 
dearest,  prays  ever  your  very  own — 

B. 


390  THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEET  BEOWNING  [August  3 

Mrs.  Procter  wants  me  to  go  to  her  on  Thursday — is 
there  anything  to  get  out  of  that  arrangement? — probably 
not — but  write! 

Do  reconsider,  Ba, — had  I  better  stay  away  to-morrow? 
You  cannot  misunderstand  me, — I  only  think  of  you — any 
man's  anger  to  me  is  Flushie's  barking,  without  the  re- 
spectability of  motive, — but,  once  the  door  shut  on  me,  if 
he  took  to  biting  you !  Think  for  us  both !  Is  there  any 
possibility  of  a  suspicious  sadden  return  because  of  the 
facilities  of  the  day  ?  Or  of  the  servant  being  desired  to 
mention  my  visits — or  to  '  deny  you, '  as  unwell  &c.  ?  Ah 
my  soul  revolts  at  the  notion  of  a  scene  in  your  presence — 
my  own  tied  tongue,  and  a  system  of  patience  I  can  well 
resolve  upon,  but  not  be  sure  of,  as  experience  makes  sure. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  August  4,  1846.] 

Two  precious  letters  to  make  amends  for  yesterday! 
and  in  return  only  just  two  or  three  words  to  say  .  .  '  yes, 
come.'  And  I  meant  to  have  proposed  to  you  something 
like  what  you  suggest  when  you  talk  of  the  book  and  the 
note.  If  the  ground  is  not  clear  at  three,  and  Papa  (above 
all)  still  in  the  house,  you  shall  have  a  note,  instead  of 
admittance,  .  .  and  you  will  understand  by  the  sign  that 
it  is  wise  for  us  not  to  meet.  My  hope  and  expectation 
are,  however,  that  no  obstacle  will  occur — that  he  will  be 
in  the  city,  and  she  at  Fenton's  Hotel,  engaged  in  some 
office  of  consolation  beside  her  sister.  I  seriously  ex- 
horted her  to  remain  there  the  rest  of  the  day  to  wipe 
away  the  tears  of  the  bride's  mother  .  .  as  an  appendix 
to  the  breakfast : — ah,  and  seriously  I  thought  she  ought 
to  stay,  as  well  as  seriously  wishing  it.  And  thus,  alto- 
gether, we  shall  probably  have  open  ground  when  it  is 
desirable.     If  not,  the  note ! — 

For  the  rest,  dearest,  do  not  exaggerate  to  yourself  my 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  391 

report  of  what  passed  on  Saturday.  It  was  an  unpleasant 
impression,  and  that  is  all,  .  .  and  nothing,  I  believe,  has 
been  thought  of  it  since.  Once  before,  remember,  your 
apparition  made  an  unpleasant  impression,  which  was  per- 
fectly transitory  then  as  now.  Now  as  then,  do  not  suffer 
such  things  to  vex  you  beyond  their  due  import.  There 
will  be  no  coming  back,  no  directions  to  servants,  nothing 
of  the  sort.  Only  it  would  not  do  to  deepen  Saturday's 
impression  with  to-morrow's — we  must  be  prudent  a  little. 

And  you  see  me,  my  prophet,  sent  to  Sussex  or  Devon- 
shire, in  a  flash  of  lightning?  That  is  your  presentiment, 
do  you  say  ?  Well !  Sussex  is  possible,  Kent  is  not  im- 
possible. This  house,  .  .  voxpopuliclamat, — wants  clean- 
ing, painting,  papering — the  inhabitants  thereof,  too,  cry 
aloud  for  fresh  air.  Nevertheless,  summer  after  summer, 
there  have  been  the  same  reasons  for  going,  and  nobody 
goes.     We  shall  see. 

So  till  to-morrow !  Dear,  dearest !  you  are  always  best 
— to  justify  the  dearest,  I  suppose !  I  remember  your  hav- 
ing said  before  some  of  this  .  .  which,  never  could  I  for- 
get, having  once  heard.  But  think  how  Alfred  the  king 
divided  his  days — and  how  Solomon  the  king  would  tell 
you  of  '  a  time  '  for  sitting  with  me.  '  Bid  me  .  .  not  .  . 
discourse '  however — we  shall  both  know  what  is  right 
presently — and  I  in  the  meanwhile  perfectly  do  know  that 
I  could  not  consent  to  your  shutting  yourself  up  for  my 
sake — no,  indeed ! 

Shall  I  fail  to  you?  Could  I?  Could  it  be  needful  for 
me  to  say  'Iivill  not  fail.' 

Your  own,  I  am. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  August  5,  1846.] 

One  word  or  two  to-night  and  no  more,  let  the  paper 
spread  itself  as  it  may.  Dearest,  it  was  wise  of  you,  per- 
haps, to  go  to-day.     Wisdom  was  the  first  to  wear  sack- 


392  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  5 

cloth.  My  aunt,  who  had  just  had  time  to  hear  of  your 
being  in  the  house,  found  my  door  open,  and  you  were 
noticed  by  a  passing  jest  .  .  too  passing  to  meet  ears  in 
authority — and  I  was  made  to  put  on  my  bonnet  and  go  out 
in  the  carriage  with  our  deparment  of  the  bridal  party,  who 
had  come  home  first,  in  order  to  change  their  costume  into 
something  wearable  for  comfort  .  .  into  gowns  which  had 
not  a  devil,  torturing  the  wearers  with  a  morbid  sense  of 
flounces.  So  they  came  home  for  that,  and  we  were  vexed 
and  frightened  for  that  reason — and  I  was  taken  to  Ken- 
sington Gardens  to  leave  some  walkers  there,  and  then  to 
Fenton's  Hotel,  to  leave  my  aunt  as  comforter  for  the  even- 
ing. Altogether,  oh,  how  provoked  I  was !  But  it  was 
wise  perhaps.  I  will  not  say  that  it  was  not  very  wise 
indeed.  Papa  knows  nothing  of  your  having  been  here, 
and  Saturday  is  not  far  off.  Still,  to  think  of  two  hours 
being  cut  off;  and  of  the  long  journey  from  New  Cross, 
just  for  the  one  hour'  Shall  I  hear  to-morrow  fully,  to 
make  up  for  it,  Robert?  And  tell  me  if  you  accept  Mrs. 
Jameson's  invitation.     And  your  head? 

Flush  thanks  you !  I  asked  him  if  he  loved  you  even, 
and  he  wagged  his  tail.  Generally  when  I  ask  him  that 
question  he  won't  answer  at  all, — but  you  have  overcome 
him  with  generosity  .  .  as  you  do  me ! 

I  forgot  to  tell  you —  There  is  a  letter  from  Mr.  Home 
which  makes  me  vexed  a  little.  He  is  coming  to  England, 
and  says,  that,  if  still  I  will  not  see  him,  he  shall  bring 
his  guitar  to  play  and  sing  for  my  sisters,  leaving  the  door 
open  that  I  may  hear  upstairs.  What  a  vexation !  How 
shall  I  escape  a  checkmate  now?  He  castles  his  king,  and 
the  next  move  undoes  me.  There's  a  bishop  though  to  be 
played  first,  for  he  wants  an  introduction  to  Whately, 
which  I  am  to  write  for  to  Miss  Mitford,  if  I  don't  "know 
him  myself. 

My  consolation  for  to-day,  is,  that  to-morrow  is  not 
Sunday.  In  the  meanwhile,  nothing  is  talked  except  of 
the  glories  of  Fenton's  Hotel.     The  bride  behaved  with 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  393 

the  most  indisputable  grace,  and  had  words  and  smiles  for 
everybody.  The  bridegroom  appears  to  have  been  rather 
petrified  (he  was  saying  orisons  to  St.  James,  I  dare  say) 
and  was  condemned  by  the  severer  critics,  for  being  able 
to  produce  no  better  speech  at  the  breakfast,  when  his 
health  was  drunk  with  ever  so  much  elaboration  of  elo- 
quence, than  'I  thank  you- — I  propose  yours.'  For  my 
part  I  sympathize  more  with  him  in  that  point  of  specific 
stupidity,  than  on  any  other  I  have  yet  heard  of.  If  he 
had  said  as  little  about  ecclesiastical  architecture,  he  would 
have  been  unobjectionable,  wholly.  They  went  away  with 
four  horses,  in  disdain  of  the  railroads. 

But  poor  Mrs.  Hedley  was  dreadfully  affected — I  knew 
she  would  be.  This  is  the  only  grown-up  daughter,  you 
see, — the  others  being  all  children,  the  youngest  three 
years  old — and  she  loses  a  constant  companion,  besides 
the  hourly  sight  of  a  very  lovely  girl,  the  delight  of  her 
eyes  and  heart. 

Dearest,  you  understood  why  I  told  you  to-day  of  Mr. 
Kenyon's  professed  opinions?  It  was  to  make  you  know 
him.  The  rest,  we  know  alike.  And  for  Mm  even,  when 
he  looks  back  on  a  thing  instead  of  looking  forward  to  it 
(where  the  Bude  Light  of  the  world  is  in  his  eyes  and 
blinds  them)  he  will  see  aright  and  as  we  do.  Only  you 
frightened  me  by  your  idea  about  his  application  to  you. 
May  God  forbid! 

May  God  bless  you,  rather,  in  the  best  way !  Why 
should  I  choose  how?  I  'ought'  not,  I  think,  to  fancy 
that  I  know  the  best  for  you,  enough  to  use  such  words. 

But  I  am  your  own.  That,  we  both  know !  May  I  be 
yours,  not  to  do  you  harm,  my  beloved!  Good-night, 
now! 


394  THE  LETTEES  OF  BOBEET  BBOWNING  [August  5 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  5,  1846.] 

If  I  Lad  felt,  as  you  pleased  to  feel  yesterday,  that  it 
had  been  '  only  one  hour '  which  my  coming  gained — I 
should  richly  deserve  to  find  out  to-day,  as  I  do  fully, 
what  the  precise  value  of  such  an  hour  is.  But  I  never 
act  so  ungratefully  and  foolishly — you  are  more  than  ever 
you  have  been  to  me, — yet  at  any  time  I  would  have  gone 
for  the  moment's  sight  of  you, — one  moment's — and  re- 
turned happy.  You  never  doubt  this  because  I  do  not 
waylay  you  in  your  walks  and  rides?  I  consider  your 
sisters,  and  your  apprehension  for  them,  and  other  reasons 
that  make  such  a  step  objectionable.  Do  you  remember 
what  I  said  yesterday — what  I  have  told  myself  so  often? 
It  is  one  proof  how  I  love  you  that  I  am  jealous  of  any  con- 
versation with  you  which  should  be  too  interesting/or  itself, 
apart  from  the  joy  of  your  presence — it  is  better  to  sit  and 
see  you,  or  hear  you,  or  only  say  something  which,  in  its 
insignificance,  shall  be  obviously  of  no  account  beside  the 
main  and  proper  delight — as  at  wine-feasts  you  get  the 
wine  and  a  plate  of  thin  dry  tasteless  biscuits — (observe, 
for  instance,  that  this  noble  simile  was  not  set  before  you 
yesterday — no,  my  Ba !) 

And  you  did  understand  also  why  I  left,  on  that  mere 
chance  of  danger  to  you, — for  it  was  not,  do  you  think  it 
was  only  the  irksomeness  to  myself  I  sought  to  escape — 
though  that  would  have  been  considerable.  There  is  no 
unstable  footing  for  me  in  the  whole  world  except  just  in 
your  house — which  is  not  yours.  I  ought  not  to  be  in 
that  one  place — all  I  could  do  in  any  circumstances  (were 
a  meeting  to  happen)  would  be  wrong,  unfortunate.  The 
certainty  of  misconcejjtion  would  spoil  everything — so 
much  of  gentleness  as  is  included  in  ^e^^emanliness  would 
pass  for  a  very  different  quality — and  the  manliness  which 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  395 

one  observes  there  too,  would  look  like  whatever  it  is  far- 
thest from.  This  is  a  real  avowal  of  weakness — because, 
being  in  the  right,  as  I  dare  trust  I  am,  so  far  as  I  can  see 
through  the  involvement,  I  ought  to  be  able  to  take  my 
stand  upon  it, — and  so  I  shall  be  able,  and  easily — but 
not  here,  just  here.  With  Mr.  Kenyon,  in  spite  of  a  few 
misgivings,  I  shall  know  what  to  say — I  can  justify  my- 
self, if  not  convince  him.  Never  fancy,  dearest,  that  he 
has  any  '  clay  '  in  his  composition — he  may  show  a  drop 
of  water  at  the  heart  of  the  else  entire  chrystal  he  is — did 
you  ever  see  that  pretty  phenomenon — of  which  Claudian 
wrote  so  prettily  ?  '  Non  potuit  toto  mentiri  corpore  gem- 
mam,  sed  medio  latuit  proditor  orbe  latex. '  Our  Druids 
used  to  make  balls  for  divining  out  of  such  all-but-solid 
gems  with  the  central  weakness — I  have  had  them  in  my 
hand.  Such  doubts  and  fears  are  infinitely  more  becom- 
ing in  him,  situated  as  he  is,  than  their  absence  would  be 
■ — if  he  said  for  instance,  '  Oh  yes, — I  am  used  to  a  certain 
style  of  living,  which  of  course  I  do  not  change  for  no  rea- 
son at  all,— but  who  doubts  that  I  could  do  so,  without 
difficulty  or  regret?  I  shall  hardly  bestow  any  sympathy 
on  what  I  am  sure  must  be  the  easiest  life  in  the  world ! ' 
One  would  rather  hear  an  epicure  say  frankly  he  cannot 
conceive  how  people  can  end  a  dinner  without  Tokay,  than 
ask  over  his  Tokay  (as  Sheridan's  Abbot  in  the  '  Duenna  ') 
of  the  poor  starved  wistful  attendant  monk,  '  Haven't  you 
the  chrystal  spring? ' 

In  this  case,  he  is  directly  looking  to  your  possible 
undertakings,  not  merely  expressing  his  general  '  remem- 
brance that  we  are  dust '  and  need  gilding — and  certainly 
if  in  some  respects  you  have,  as  I  believe,  less  use,  fewer 
uses  for  money  than  ordinary  women, — you  also  have  an 
absolute  necessity  for  whatever  portion  you  do  require, — 
such  a  necessity  as  they  have  not,  neither.  I  shall  never 
grieve  over  the  lace  handkerchiefs  you  cannot  get — but 
whatever  you  possess  already  in  this  room  of  yours,  or 
might  possess  on  the  contingency  of  such  illness,  you  must 


396  THE  LETTERS  OF  BOBEBT  BBOWNING  [August  5 

keep, — to  your  life's  end.  I  would  not  take  you  away  on 
any  other  condition.  Now  listen  Ba— not  think  for  a  mo- 
ment that  it  puts  me  to  the  least,  least  pain  imaginable  to 
talk  on  this  subject,  while  I  know  you  wholly,  as  there  I 
am  sure  I  do,  and  while  you  too  know  me,  as  I  also  am 
sure, — we  may  discuss  this,  as  we  do  the  better  or  worse 
routes  to  Italy,  in  the  fullest  confidence  of  our  aims  and 
desires  being  absolutely  identical, — so  that  it  is  but  a 
prize  for  the  ingenuity  of  either, — a  prize  from  the  com- 
mon stock  of  our  advantage, — whenever  a  facility  is  discov- 
ered or  a  difficulty  avoided.  So  listen, — will  you,  at  once, 
or  as  soon  as  practicable,  ascertain  what  you  certainly  pos- 
sess—what is  quite  yours,  and  in  your  sole  power,  to  take 
or  to  let  remain — what  will  be  just  as  available  to  you  in 
Italy  as  in  England?  I  want  to  know,  being  your  possible 
husband.  My  notion  of  the  perfection  of  money  arrange- 
ments is  that  of  a  fairy  purse  which  every  day  should  hold 
so  much,  and  there  an  end  of  trouble.  Houses  and  land 
always  seem  like  a  vineyard  to  a  man  who  wants  a  draught 
of  wine  for  present  thirst:  so  tell  me  how  much  will  be 
found  in  the  purse— because  when  we  are  in  Italy  or  half- 
way there  telling  will  be  superfluous  or  beyond  remedy,—- 
easy  remedy  at  least. 

Since  writing  the  above  I  have  been  down-stairs — and 
now  return  to  tell  you,  a  miracle  has  just  happened,  which 
my  father,  mother  and  sister  are  at  this  moment  engaged 
in  admiring — I  hear  their  voices  in  the  garden.  We  have 
a  fig-tree  which  I  planted  four  years  ago — this  year  it  pro- 
duces its  first  fruit,  a  small  fig,  '  seule  et  unique, '  which  is 
still  on  the  tree — not  another  fig,  ripe  or  unripe,  living  or 
dead,  has  ever  been  carried  into  the  garden — yet  this 
morning  is  discovered  in  the  exact  centre  of  the  garden, 
and  parallel  with  the  fig-tree  aforesaid,  another  indubitable 
seedling  fig-tree, — '  how  begot,  how  nourished? '  Ipse 
vidi — does  that  prognosticate,  my  own  Siren,  my  sooth- 
sayer and  wise  lady  ? 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEEETT  397 

And  now,  have  you  been  incommoded  by  the  storm, — 
and  thunder,  which  was  loud  and  lasting  here?  I  thought 
of  you  with  such  thoughts. 

And  what  came  of  my  visit?  Was  it  really  your  Aunt 
— did  my  precipitation  improve  matters?  Will  Saturday 
have  to  fear? 

Yesterday  I  was  not  in  a  mood  to  go  quietly  home — 
'  for  my  soul  kept  up  too  much  light  under  my  eyelids  for 
the  night,  and  thus  I  went  disquieted  '  till  at  Charing  Cross 
it  struck  me  that  going  home  by  water  (to  Greenwich,  at 
least)  would  be  a  calmative — so  I  went  on  board  a  steamer. 
Close  by  me  sate  three  elderly  respectable  men, — I  could 
not  help  hearing  them  talk  rationally  about  the  prospects 
of  the  planters,  the  '  compensation  there  is  to  be  in  the 
article  of  Bum,'— how  we  '  get  labour,'  which  is  the  main 
thing,  and  may  defy,  with  that,  Cuba,  the  Brazils  &c. 
One  who  talked  thus  was  a  fat  genial  fellow,  ending  every 
sentence  in  a  laugh  from  pure  good-nature — his  com- 
panions somehow  got  to  '  the  Church, '  then  Puseyism, 
then  Dissent — on  all  which  this  personage  had  his  little 
opinion, — when  one  friend  happened  to  ask  '  you  think 
so?  '— '  I  do,'  said  the  the  other,  '  and  indeed  I  know  it.' 
4  How  so?  ' — '  Because  it  was  revealed  to  me  in  a  vision.' 
'A  .  .  .  vision?' — cYes,  a  vision ' — and  so  he  began  to 
describe  it,  quite  in  earnest,  but  with  the  selfsame  preci- 
sion and  assurance,  with  which  he  had  been  a  little  before 
describing  the  effect  of  the  lightning  on  an  iron  steam  boat 
at  Woolwich  as  he  witnessed  it.  In  this  vision  he  had 
seen  the  devil  cast  out  of  himself — which  he  took  for  an 
earnest  of  God's  purposes  for  good  to  the  world  at  large — 
I  thought,  '  we  mad  poets, — and  this  very  unpoetical  per- 
son ! '  who  had  also  previously  been  entering  on  the  mo- 
mentous question  '  why  I  grow  fatter  than  of  old,  seeing 
that  I  eat  no  more — ' 

Come,  Ba,  say,  is  not  this  too  bad,  too  far  from  the 
line? — I  may  talk  this  by  you, — but  write  this  away  from 
you, — oh,  no!    Be  with  me  then,  dearest,  for  one  moment, 


398  THE  LETTERS  OF  EOBEET  BROWNING  [August  5 

for  many  moments,  in  spite  of  the  miles,  while  I  kiss  your 
sweetest  lips,  as  now — Beloved ! 

I  am  ever  your  very  own 

Oh, — I  determine  not  to  go  yet  to  Mrs.  J's  '  for  rea- 
sons ' — a  phrase  which  ought  to  be  ready  stereotyped. 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

"Wednesday  Night. 
[Post-mark,  August  6,  1846.] 

Dearest,  you  did  not  have  my  letter,  I  think — the  letter 
I  wrote  on  Tuesday,  yesterday.  These  iniquitous  post- 
people — who  are  not  likely  to  see  in  a  vision  (like  your  fat 
prophet)  the  devil  cast  out  of  them  for  the  good  of  the 
world !    Indeed  it  is  too  bad. 

To  answer  first  the  question — (You  are  wise  beyond  me 
in  all  things  .  .  let  me  say  that  in  a  parenthesis !)  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  know.  Stormie  told  me  the  other  day  that 
I  had  eight  thousand  pounds  in  the  funds ;  of  which  the 
interest  comes  to  me  quarterly,  the  money  being  in  two 
different  per  cents  .  .  (do  you  understand  better  than  I 
do?)  and  from  forty  to  forty -five  pounds  Papa  gives  me 
every  three  months,  the  income  tax  being  first  deducted. 
It  may  be  eight  thousand  pounds,  or  more  or  less,  .  .  it 
is  difficult  to  ask  about  it  .  .  but  what  comes  to  me  every 
three  months,  I  know  certainly.  Then  there  is  the  ship 
money  .  .  a  little  under  two  hundred  a  year  on  an  aver- 
age .  .  which  I  have  not  used  at  all  (but  must  for  the  fu- 
ture use),  and  the  annual  amount  of  which  therefore,  has 
been  added  to  the  Fund-money  until  this  year,  when  I  was 
directed  to  sign  a  paper  which  invested  it  (i.  e.  the  annual 
return)  in  the  Eastern  Railroad.  That  investment  is  to 
yield  a  large  percentage,  I  heard,  and  Stormie  tried  to 
persuade  me  to  ask  Papa  to  place  everything  I  had,  on  the 
same  railroad.  Papa  had  said  down-stairs  the  other  day 
that  it  would  be  best  so— and  I  ought  to  remind  him  to  do 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  399 

it,  repeated  Stormie,  as  it  would  very  much  increase  .  . 
increase  by  doubling  almost  .  .  the  available  income ;  and 
without  the  slightest  risk  of  any  kind.  But  I  could  not 
take  the  advice  under  the  circumstances — I  could  not  men- 
tion such  a  word  as  money  to  him,  giving  the  appearance 
even  of  trouble  about  my  affairs,  now.  And  he  would 
wonder  how  I  should  take  a  fancy  suddenly  to  touch  such 
matters  with  the  end  of  my  ringer.  Then  there  are  the 
ten  shares  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre — out  of  which  comes 
nothing. 

You  wonder  how  I  can  spend,  perhaps,  the  quarterly 
forty  pounds  and  upward  that  come  to  me?  I  do  spend 
them.  Yet  let  me  hold  you  from  being  frightened,  and 
teach  you  to  consider  how  easy  it  is  to  spend  money,  and 
not  upon  oneself.  Never  in  any  one  year  of  my  life,  even 
when  I  was  well,  have  my  expenses  in  dress  (as  I  told  Mr. 
Kenyon  the  other  day)  exceeded  twenty  pounds.  My  great- 
est personal  expense  lately  has  been  the  morphine.  Still 
the  money  flows  out  of  window  and  door — you  will  under- 
stand how  it  flows  like  a  stream.  I  have  not  the  gift  (if 
it  is  a  gift)  of  making  dresses  .  .  in  my  situation,  here. 
Elsewhere,  all  changes,  you  know.  You  shall  not  call  me 
extravagant — you  will  see.  If  I  was  '  surprised '  at  what 
you  told  me  of  Mrs.  Norton,  it  was  only  because  I  had 
had  other  ideas  of  her — for  my  own  gown  cost  five  shil- 
lings .  .  the  one  I  had  on  when  you  spoke.  So  she  was 
better  than  I  by  a  mere  sixpence.  Ah — it  came  into  my 
head  afterwards  that  my  being  '  surprised '  about  Mrs. 
Norton,  might  argue  my  own  extravagance.     See ! — 

But  the  Goddess  Dulness  inspires  me  to  write  about  it 
and  about  it,  to  no  end.  I  say  briefly  at  last,  that  what- 
ever I  have,  is  mine  .  .  and  for  use  in  Italy,  as  in  Eng- 
land. Papa  has  managed  .  .  has  taken  a  power  of  at- 
torney, to  manage  for  me  kindly  .  .  but  everything  is  in 
my  name — and  if  it  were  not,  he  could  not  for  a  moment 
think  of  interfering  with  an  incontestable  right  of  prop- 
erty.    Still,  I  do  see  a  difficulty  at  the  beginning — I  mean 


400  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  6 

that,  as  I  am  here,  I  could  not  put  my  hand  out  for  a  large 
sum,  such  as  would  be  necessary  perhaps.  I  have  had  a 
great  deal  to  pay  and  do  lately, — and  the  next  quarter  will 
not  be  until  the  middle  of  October.  Still  there  would  be 
something,  but  less  than  is  necessary.  We  might  either 
wait  on  the  road  till  the  required  sum  were  called  for  and 
sent — or  get  a  hundred  pounds  advanced  by  someone  for  a 
few  weeks  until  everything  was  settled  .  .  which  would  be 
pleasanter,  if  possible.  Poor  Papa's  first  act  will  be  to 
abandon  his  management.  Ah,  may  God  grant  him  to  do 
it  rather  angrily  than  painfully. 

A  letter,  I  have  written  to  you,  like  the  chiming  of  two 
penny  pieces — a  miserable  letter !  And  there  is  much  to 
tell  you  .  .  but  nothing  painful  .  .  do  not  fear.  The 
Hedleys  dined  here,  and  Mrs.  Hedley  has  been  sitting 
with  me  .  .  keeping  me  from  writing.  Good-night  now 
it  must  be !  When  you  write  so  of  caring  to  be  with  me, 
my  heart  seems  to  rock  with  pleasure.  Shouldn't  this 
letter  have  been  written  on  'Change,  and  isn't  it  unworthy 
of  all  you  are  to  me  .  .  and  even  of  all  I  am  to  you?  But 
such  things  must  be,  after  a  fashion.  Have  I  told  you 
right,  dearest?  does  it  make  any  sense,  altogether?  You 
are  wise  in  little  subjects  as  in  great  ones,  and  I  will  let 
you  make  me  wiser  if  you  can.  And  there  is  no  clay  in 
dear  Mr.  Kenyon  .  .  but  just  the  drop  in  the  chrystal  you 
tell  me  of — only  you  shall  not  divine  by  him,  my  Druid, 
or  you  will  sit  by  yourself  under  the  oak  tree  to  the  end 
of  the  day ! 

Wholly  yours  and  ever — in  the  greatest  haste — 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  6,  1846.  ] 

No,  dearest, — the  post  brought  me  no  letter  till  early 
this  morning,  a  few  hours  before  the  second  arrival :  so, 
in  case  of  any  unexpected  stoppage  in  our  visit-affairs,  if 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  401 

the  post  can  have  been  to  blame,  always  be  sure  it  is  ;  if  I 
do  not  arrive  at  any  time  when  I  ought  to  arrive,  having 
been  sent  for — there  is  the  great  instance  and  possibility, 
which  you  are  to  remember !  However  at  present,  post 
naufragia  tutus  sum  with  my  two  treasures. 

Thank  you,  dearest,  for  all  that  kind  care  of  answering 
— will  you  now  let  me  lay  it  all  quietly  up  in  my  head  to 
mature,  before  I  .  .  really  think  upon  it,  much  more, 
speak  of  it?  If  one  can  do  both  once  for  all,  what  a  bless- 
ing !  But  a  little  leaven  of  uncertainty  and  apprehension, 
just  enough  to  be  tasted  bitterly  in  the  whole  lump  of  our 
life, — that  cannot  be  too  diligently  guarded  against  while 
there  is  time. 

Well,  love,  your  excursion  to  Kensington  was  a  real 
good,  well  purchased  by  my  early  going — and  I  am  glad 
the  great  event  stood  before  all  eyes  and  mouths.  I  seem 
to  notice  that  you  do  not  leave  the  house  quite  so  often 
as,  say,  a  month  ago;  and  that  you  are  not  the  better  for 
it.  Of  course  you  cannot  go  out  in  storm  and  rain.  Will 
you  do  what  is  best  for  my  Ba,  you  who  say  you  love  me, 
— that  is,  love  her? 

Don't  I  sympathize  with  Home,  and  see  with  his  eyes, 
and  want  with  his  senses !  But  why  can  he  not  want  after 
the  two  months,  I  ask  selfishly — seeing,  or  fancying  I  see, 
this  inconvenience  .  .  that,  as  his  report  will  probably  be 
the  latest  to  the  world,  it  would  be  advisable  for  you  to 
look  as  well  as  possible, — would  it  not?  It  would  not  do 
for  him  to  tell  people  'All  I  can  say  is,  that  a  few  weeks 
only  before  it  happened,  she  appeared  to  me  thus  and  thus  ' 
■ — while,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  receive  him  in  the  draw- 
ing room, — there  are  difficulties  too. 

You  never  told  me  how  yesterday's  thunder  affected 
you — nor  how  your  general  health  is — yet  I  will  answer 
you  that  I  am  very  well  to-day — about  to  go  to  Mrs.  Proc- 
ter's, alas — it  is  good  that  this  letter  cannot  reach  you 
before  night  or  nine  o'clock — I  should  fail  to  deny  myself 
the  moment's  glance  at  the  window — if  you  could  be  prayed 
Vol.  II.— 26 


402  THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  |AuatJST 6 

to  stand  there !  But  it  is  past  praying  for  now.  I  told 
you  that  I  have  excused  myself  to  Mrs.  Jameson  on  the 
ground  of  some  kind  of  uncertainty  that  rules  the  next 
fortnight's  engagements — who  shall  say  what  a  fortnight 
may  not  bring  forth?  I  shall  not  mind  Mr.  Kenyon  being 
of  the  party  to-night,  should  it  be  so  ordered  .  .  for,  if 
he  asks  me,  I  can  say  with  dignity — '  No, — I  did  not  call 
to-day, — meaning  to  call  on  Saturday,  perhaps' — 'Well, 
there  is  some  forbearance, '  he  will  think !  However,  he 
will  not  be  present,  I  prophesy,  and  Chorley  will  .  .  or 
no,  perhaps,  Rachel's  Jeanne  D'Arc  may  tempt  him.  Im- 
portant to  Ba,  very !  almost  as  much  as  to  me — so  at  once 
to  the  really,  truly,  exclusively  important  thing,  by  com- 
parison— Love  me  ever,  dearest  dearest,  as  I  must  ever 
love  you, — and  take  my  heart,  as  if  it  were  a  better  offer- 
ing. Also  write  to  me  and  tell  me  that  Saturday  is  safe 
.  .  will  it  be  safe?  Your  aunt  may  perhaps  leave  you 
soon — and  one  observation  of  hers  would  be  enough  to 
ruin  us — consider  and  decide ! 

Since  these  words  were  written,  my  mother,  who  was 
out,  entered  the  room  to  confirm  a  horrible  paragraph  in 
the  paper.  You  know  our  light  momentary  annoyance  at 
the  storm  on  Saturday ;  it  is  over  for  us.  The  next  day, 
Mr.  Chandler,  the  cultivator  of  camellias  at  Wandsworth, 
died  of  grief  at  the  loss  from  the  damage  to  his  conserva- 
tories and  flowers — which  new  calamity  added  to  the 
other,  deprived  his  eldest  son,  and  partner- — of  his  senses 
.  .  '  he  was  found  to  be  raving  mad  on  Monday  '  are  the 
words  of  the  Times.  My  mother's  informant  called  theirs 
'  the  most  amicable  of  families. ' 

How  strange — and  a  few  weeks  ago  I  read,  in  the  same 
paper,  a  letter  from  Constantinople — wherein  the  writer 
mentioned  that  he  had  seen  (I  think,  that  morning)  Pacha 
somebody,  whose  malpractices  had  just  drawn  down  on 
him  the  Sultan's  vengeance,  and  who  had  been  left  with 
barely  his  life, — having  lost  his  immense  treasures,  pal- 
aces and  gardens  &c,  along  with  his  dignity, — the  writer 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  403 

saw  this  old  man  selling  slices  of  melon  on  a  bridge  in  the 
city;  and  on  stopping  in  wonderment  to  praise  such  con- 
stancy, the  Turk  asked  him  with  at  least  equal  astonish- 
ment, whether  it  was  not  fitter  to  praise  Allah  who  had 
lent  liim  such  wealth  for  forty  years,  than  to  repine  that 
he  had  judged  right  to  recall  it  now? 

Could  we  but  practise  it,  as  we  reason  on  it! — May 
God  continue  me  that  blessing  I  have  all  unworthily  re- 
ceived .  .  but  not,  I  trust,  insensibly  received ! 

May  he  keep  you,  dearest  dearest 

E. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  August  7,  1846.] 

I  told  you  nothing  yesterday ;  but  the  interruption  left 
me  no  time,  and  the  house  was  half  asleep  before  I  had 
done  writing  what  I  was  able  to  write.  Otherwise  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Jameson  had  been  here  .  .  that  she 
came  yesterday,  and  without  having  received  my  note. 
So  I  was  thrown  from  my  resources.  I  was  obliged  to 
thank  her  with  my  voice  .  .  so  much  weaker  than  my 
hand.  If  you  knew  how  frightened  I  was !  The  thunder, 
the  morning  before,  (which  I  did  not  hear  holding  your 
hand !)  shook  me  less,  upon  the  whole.  I  thanked  her  at 
least  .  .  I  could  do  that.  And  then  I  said  it  was  in  vain 
.  .  impossible. 

'  Mr.  Kenyon  threw  cold  water  on  the  whole  scheme. 
But  you  !    Have  you  given  up  going  to  Italy  ?  ' 

I  said  '  no,  that  I  have  not  certainly.'  I  said  *  I  felt 
deeply  how  her  great  kindness  demanded  every  sort  of 

frankness  and  openness  from  me  towards  her, and  yet, 

that  at  that  moment  I  could  not  be  frank — there  were  rea- 
sons which  prevented  it.  Would  she  promise  not  to  renew 
the  subject  to  Mr.  Kenyon?  not  to  repeat  to  him  what  I 
said?  and  to  wait  until  the  whole  should  be  explained 
to  herself? ' 


404  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  7 

She  promised.  She  was  kind  beyond  imagination — at 
least,  far  beyond  expectation.  She  looked  at  me  a  little 
curiously,  but  asked  no  more  questions  until  she  rose  to 
go  way.     And  then 

.'  But  you  will  go?  '  '  Perhaps — if  something  unfore- 
seen does  not  happen.'  'And  you  will  let  me  know,  and 
when  you  can, — when  everything  is  settled?'  'Yes.' 
'And  you  think  you  shall  go?'  'Yes.'  'And  with  effi- 
cient companionship?  '  'Yes.'  'And  happily  and  quiet- 
ly? '.'  Ye  .  .'  I  could  not  say  the  full  '  Yes,'  to  that— 
If  it  had  been  utterable,  the  idea  of  '  quiet '  would  have 
been  something  peculiar.  She  loosened  her  grasp  of  her 
catechumen,  therefore nothing  was  to  be  done  with  me. 

I  forgot,  however,  to  tell  you  that  in  the  earlier  part  of 
the  discussion  she  spoke  of  having  half  given  up  her  plan 
of  going  herself.  In  her  infinite  goodness  she  said,  '  she 
seemed  to  want  an  object,  and  it  was  in  the  merest  selfish- 
ness, she  had  proposed  taking  me  as  an  object ' —  'And 
if  you  go  even  without  me,  would  it  not  be  possible  to 
meet  you  on  the  road?  I  shall  go  to  Paris  in  any  case. 
Tf  you  go,  how  do  you  go?  ' 

'  Perhaps  across  France— by  the  rivers. ' 

'  Precisely.  That  is  as  it  should  be.  Mr.  Kenyon 
talked  of  a  long  sea-voyage. ' 

Now  I  have  recited  the  whole  dialogue  to  you,  I  think, 
except  where  my  gratitude  grew  rhetorical,  as  well  it 
might.  She  is  the  kindest,  most  affectionate  woman  in 
the  world!  and  you  shall  let  me  love  her  for  you  and 
for  me. 

As  for  me,  my  own  dearest,  you  are  fanciful  when  you 
say  that  I  do  not  go  out  so  much,  nor  look  so  well.  Now 
I  will  just  tell  you — Henrietta  cried  out  in  loud  astonish- 
ment at  me  to-day,  desiring  Treppy  to  look  at  my  face, 
when  we  were  all  standing  together  in  this  room — '  Look 
at  Ba,  Treppy ! —  Did  you  ever  see  anyone  looking  so 
much  better;  it  really  is  wonderful,  the  difference  within 
these  few  weeks.'     That's  Henrietta's  opinion!     She  quite 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKEETT  405 

startled  me  with  crying  out  .  .  as  if  suddenly  she  had 
missed  my  head ! —     And  you  ! 

Then  I  have  been  out  in  the  carriage  to-day,  just  to 
Charing  Cross,  and  then  to  Mr.  Boyd's  in  St.  John's 
Wood.  I  am  as  well  at  this  moment  as  anyone  in  the 
world.  I  have  not  had  one  symptom  of  illness  throughout 
the  summer — perfectly  well,  I  am.  At  the  same  time, 
being  strong  is  different ;  and  sometimes  for  a  day  or  two 
together,  when  I  do  not  feel  the  strongest,  it  is  right  to  be 
quiet  and  not  to  walk  up  and  down  stairs.  So  as  I  '  love 
Bo,,'  (quite  enough,  I  assure  you!)  I  am  quiet.  There's 
the  only  meaning  of  not  going  out  every  day !  But  the 
health  is  perfectly  unaffected,  I  do  assure  you, — so  keep 
yourself  from  every  vexing  thought  of  me,  so  far  at  least. 
Are  you  getting  frightened  for  me,  my  beloved?  Do  not 
be  frightened,  I  would  not  deceive  you  by  an  exaggeration, 
for  the  sake  even  of  your  temporary  satisfaction — you  may 
trust  what  I  say. 

For  the  thunder  .  .  if  you  thought  of  me  during  it,  as 
you  say,  .  .  why  it  did  me  just  so  much  good.  Think  of 
me,  dearest,  in  the  thunder  and  out  of  the  thunder;  the 
longest  peal's  worth  of  your  thought  would  not  content  me 
now,  because  you  have  made  me  too  covetous. 

As  to  Mr.  Home,  you  write  Sordelloisms  of  him — and 
you  shall  tell  me  your  real  meaning  in  a  new  edition  on 
Saturday.  Might  your  meaning  be  that  I  look  worse  in 
this  room  than  in  the  drawing-room?  Have  you  an  objec- 
tion to  this  room  as  a  room?  I  rub  my  eyes  and  look 
for  a  little  more  light — (but  can't  be  more  impertinent! — 
can  I?) 

So,  till  Saturday — yes,  Saturday  !  To-morrow  there  is 
a  clearance  of  aunts — one  going  at  nine  in  the  morning, 
and  one  at  five  in  the  afternoon :  and  uncles  and  cousins 
do  not  stay  behind.  You  are  glad,  I  think — and  I,  not 
sorry. 

How  striking  your  two  stories  are !  Wonderful  it  is 
to  me,  when  mere  worldly  reverses  affect  men  so — I  can- 


406  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  7 

not  comprehend  it — I  stand  musing  there.  But  the  sub- 
lime sentiment  of  the  Melon-seller  applies  to  the  griefs  I 
can  understand — and  we  may  most  of  us  (called  Chris- 
tians) go  to  him  for  his  teaching. 

May  God  bless  you  for  me  /    Your  Ba. 

(I  want  to  say  one  word  more  and  so  leave  the  subject. 
Stormie  told  me  this  morning,  in  answer  to  an  enquiry  of 
mine,  that  certainly  I  did  not  receive  the  whole  interest 
of  the  fund-money,  .  .  could  not  .  .  making  ever  so  much 
allowance  for  the  income-tax.  And  now,  upon  considera- 
tion, I  seem  to  see  that  I  cannot  have  done  so.  The  ship- 
shares  are  in  the  '  David  Lyon, '  a  vessel  in  the  West  In- 
dian trade,  in  which  Papa  also  has  shares.  Stormie  said 
'  There  must  be  three  hundred  a  year  of  interest  from  the 
fund-money — even  at  the  low  rate  of  interest  paid  there.' 
Now  it  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  (as  I  saw 
even  in  to-day's  newspaper)  to  have  money  advanced  upon 
this — only  there  is  a  risk  of  its  being  known  perhaps, 
which  neither  of  us  would  at  all  like.)     Burn  this. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  7,  1846.] 

(First  of  all,  let  me  tell  you  that  the  whole  story  about 
that  death  through  grief,  madness  &c,  turns  out  to  be  a 
vile  fabrication, — false  from  beginning  to  end.  My  moth- 
er's informant,  I  now  find,  had  derived  the  knowledge  from 
newspaper  also — I  hope  the  other  tale,  of  the  Turk,  is  true 
at  least.) 

And  now,  love,  I  can  go  on  to  say  that  no  letter  comes 
■ — is  it  the  post's  fault?  Yes— I  think, — so  does  your 
goodness  spoil  me — you  have  to  tell  me  about  to-morrow, 
beside.     I  shall  wait  hopefully  till  2  or  3  o'clock. 

Mr.  Kenyon  was  there  last  evening,  for  all  my  prog- 
nostications— he  had  already  twice  passed  this  place  in  the 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  407 

course  of  the  day  on  his  way  to  Lewisham.  He  soon  asked 
me  as  I  expected — or  something  that  sounded  like  it — for, 
in  the  half  whisper  of  his  tone,  I  can  only  hope  he  did  not 
put  the  question  thus  '  Have  you  seen  Miss  Barrett  since 
Saturday, — or  have  you  called  to-day?'  My  mind  mis- 
gives a  little — at  all  events  I  only  answered  the  last  part 
of  the  sentence — and  now,  mark  you ! — after  dinner  he  pro- 
posed that  I  should  go  to  him  on  Wednesday,  and  make 
one  of  a  party  he  is  organising.  I  tried  some  faint  excuse 
or  other — '  You  know, '  interposed  he,  '  you  can  pay  a  visit 
to  Wimpole  Street  and  I  shall  know  and  keep  away  from 
troubling  you ' — or  words  to  that  effect.  I  thought  it 
really  better  to  simply  (in  every  sense  of  the  word)  smile, 
and  attempt  to  say  nothing.  Now,  I  feel  sure  that  if  I 
were  to  remark,  '  I  will  call  on  Mrs.  Jameson' — for  in- 
stance— he  would  say,  '  So  will  I,  then,  if  I  can  ' — on  that 
day,  rather  than  any  other — unless  some  special  business 
had  been  mentioned  as  the  object  of  my  visit.  And  here 
is  another  inconvenience  he  will  perhaps  consider  'As  he 
means  to  call  on  Wednesday,  — there  is  no  reason  I  should 
keep  away  to-morrow — Saturday — ' 

It  will  be,  however,  a  justification  in  his  eyes  at  the 
end — '  he  knew  her  so  well,  saw  so  much  of  her, — who 
could  wonder?  ' 

I  sate  by  a  pleasant  chatting  Jewess,  Goldsmid,  or 
whatever  the  name  is, — also  by  Thackeray — and  Milnes 
came  in  the  evening, — yet  the  dulness  was  mortal,  and  I 
am  far  from  my  ordinary  self  to-day.  I  am  convinced  that 
general  society  dej)resses  my  spirits  more  than  any  other 
cause.  I  could  keep  by  myself  for  a  month  till  I  recovered 
my  mind's  health.  But  you  are  part  or  all  of  that  self 
now, — and  would  be,  were  you  only  present  in  memory,  in 
fancy.     As  it  is,  oh,  to  be  with  you,  Ba? 

Three  o'clock,  no  letter !  I  will  put  my  own  philos- 
ophy in  practice  and  be  consoled  that  you  are  not  in  any 
circumstances  to  justify  and  require  anxiety — not  unwell— 


408  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  7 

nor  have  any  fresh  obstacles  arisen  necessarily  .  .  Any 
alleviations  so  long  as  I  am  allowed  to  keep  a  good  sub- 
stantial misfortune  at  the  end ! 

Once  you  said  in  your  very  own  way  .  .  when  I  sent 
you  some  roses  in  a  box,  and  no  letter  with  them,  '  Now  I 
shall  write  no  more  to-day,  not  having  been  written  to ! '  I 
cannot  write  more — I  see !  Ah,  Ba,  here  the  letter  comes !  ! 
and  I  will  wait  from  reading  it  to  kiss  my  gratitude  to 
you,  you  utterly  best  and  dearest!  And  I  repeat  my 
kisses  while  I  write  the  few  words  there  is  time  for — what 
a  giver  you  are  of  all  good  things  all  together.  Let  me 
take  the  best  first,  not  minding  ingratitude  to  the  rest,  and 
say  yes,  to-morrow  I  will  see  you— even  if  Mr.  Kenyon 
comes,  it  will  be  easy  saying — '  I  cannot  go  on  Wednes- 
day.' Did  you  manage  so  well  with  Mrs.  Jameson?  As 
for  Home,— why,  there  may  have  been  Sordelloisms,  I 
daresay — I  only  meant,  '  if  you  look  an  invalid  to  him, — he 
will  say  so,  just  when  your  improved  health  is  my  one 
excuse  for  the  journey  and  its  fatigues — and  if  you  look 
plainly  no  longer  an  invalid ' — Oh,  I  don't  know  .  .  I 
thought  he  might  talk  of  that  too,  and  bring  in  a  host ! 
There  is  the  secret,  rendered  more  obscurely  perhaps !  As 
for  the  room,  the  dearest  four  walls  that  I  ever  have  been 
enclosed  by — I  only  thought  of  the  possible  phrase — '  Still 
confined  to  her  room  ' — or  the  like — and  as — that  is  the 
fact, — I  rather  understood  the  whole  tone  in  which  you 
spoke  of  the  circumstance,  as  of  slight  dissatisfaction  at 
the  notion  of  the  intended  visit  .  .  in  tuam  sententiam  dis- 
cedens,  I  sordelloized ! 

The  words  about  your  health  reassure  me,  beloved !  I 
had  no  positive  fears  quite  as  you  suppose  .  .  but  I  coupled 
one  circumstance  with  another,  do  you  see,  and  did  get 
to  apprehend  what  you  now  show  me  to  be  groundless, 
thank  God ! 

Oh,  my  time !    Bless  you,  ever,  ever,  beloved ! 

Your  own  R. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  409 


R.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  August  10,  1846.] 

Just  now  I  tore  the  few  words  I  had  begun  of  the  letter 
to  you,  Ba — they  all  went  away,  strangely  afar  from  the 
meaning  begun  in  them,  through  my  mind  taking  up  the 
thought  that  you  were  '  waiting  '  for  what  I  should  write — 
'  waiting  all  day  '• — and  ready  to  call  the  poor  joyful  ser- 
vice of  love,  '  goodness '  in  me !  When  such  thoughts 
arise,  I  am  not  fit  to  pay  even  that  imperfect  service — I 
have  only  arms  to  receive  you,  kisses  to  give  you — the 
words  seem  too  cold,  indeed!  I  sincerely  believe  this  I 
am  to  write  now,  will  be  the  shorter  because  of  the  inter- 
vention of  you, — and  that,  like  Flush,  I  shall  behave  best 
when  not  looked  at  too  much ! 

Then,  in  our  life, — what  I  do  earnestly  in  intention 
and  from  love  of  you,  that  you  will  always  accept  and 
make  the  best  of!  How  happy  you  make  me,  now  and 
ever — in  the  present  happiness,  in  the  assurance  of  the 
future's  even  greater  happiness,  I  am  obliged  to  believe ! 
It  seemed  like  a  dream  as  I  walked  home  last  night  and 
thought  of  all  over  again,  after  a  few  hours'  talk  with  my 
old  friends  on  subjects  from  which  you  were  excluded,  and 
of  a  kind  that  brought  my  former  feelings  back  again ;  so 
as  to  be  understood,  at  least,  and  recognised  as  mine.  'All 
which  is  changed  now, '  I  thought  going  home  in  the  moon- 
light. Chorley  was  apprised  of  my  being  there  and  came 
good-naturedly — and  we  discussed  delinquencies  political 
and  literary :  he  says,  times  were  never  so  bad  as  now — 
people  come  without  a  notion  of  offending  a  critic,  and 
offer  him  money — '  will  you  do  this  for  so  much  ' — praise 
this  or  blame  this !  He  was  in  a  bad  humour,  he  said ;  at 
least  teazed  and  tired — and  really  looked  both,  so  that  I 
asked  '  had  you  not  better  throw  away  a  day  on  our  green 
dulness  at  Hatcham,  strolling  through  it  with  me?  ' — '  Yes 


410  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  10 

— this  day  next  week,  if  you  like ' — he  answered  at  once 
.  .  so  that  our  Saturday  will  be  gone  .  .  so  that  our  Tues- 
day must  be  secured,  my  own  Ba,  and  after  it  the  Friday, 
at  an  equal  interval  of  time — do  you  let  it  be  so?  Satur- 
day would  seem  to  be  his  only  available  day,  poor  Chorley 
— he  walked  through  the  park  with  me  and  over  the  Bridge, 
at  one  in  the  morning — in  return  for  my  proving,  (I  don't 
quite  think  that,  however!) — proving,  to  Arnould's  great 
satisfaction  at  least,  that  Mr.  Home  roas  a  poet,  and  more- 
over a  dramatic  one, — Chorley  sees  no  good  in  him  be- 
yond talent  with  an  abundance  of  '  crotchets, '  and  '  could 
not  read  "  Orion  "  for  his  life. '  I  proved  another  thing 
too — that  Foster  was  not  a  whit  behind  his  brethren  of 
the  faculty,  in  literary  morals — that  the  Examiner,  named, 
was  quite  as  just  and  good  as  another  paper,  unnamed. 
Whereat  Chorley  grew  warm  and  lost  his  guard,  and  at 
last;  declaring  I  forced  him  into  corners  and  that  speak 
he  must;  instanced  the  'Examiner's'  treatment  of  myself  as 
not  generous  .  .  '  Luria  '  having  been  noticed  as  you  re- 
member a  week  after  the  publication,  and  yet,  or  never,  to 
be  reviewed  in  the  Unnamed: — Ces  Miseres! 

A  fortnight  ago  when  Kachel  played  in  'Andromaque ' 
'  for  the  last  time  ' — Sarianna  and  I  agreed  that  if  she  did 
ever  play  again  in  it,  we  would  go  and  see  .  .  and  lo,  con- 
trary to  all  expectation  she  does  repeat  Hermione  to-morrow 
night,  and  we  are  to  go.  And  you,  Ba,  you  cannot  go — 
ought  I  to  go?  One  day,  one  not  distant  day,  and  '  can- 
not '  will  apply  to  us  both — now,  it  seems  to  do  me  good, 
with  the  crowd  of  its  suggestions,  this  seeing  Rachel;  be- 
side, Sarianna  has  just  this  only  opportunity  of  going. 

I  am  anxious  to  let  the  folly  of  that  person  spend  itself 
unaggravated  by  any  notice  of  mine — I  mean  to  you ;  any 
notice  which  should  make  you  think  it — (the  folly) — af- 
fected me  as  well  as  you;  but  I  do  trust  you  will  not  carry 
toleration  too  far  in  this  case,  nor  furnish  an  ungenerous, 
selfish  man  with  weapons  for  your  own  annoyance.  '  In- 
solent letters '  you  ought  to  put  up  with  from  no  one — and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  411 

as  thero  is  no  need  of  concealment  of  my  position  now,  I 
think  you  will  see  a  point  when  I  may  interfere.  Always 
rely  on  my  being  quietly  firm,  and  never  violent  nor  exas- 
perating :  you  alluded  to  some  things  which  I  cannot  let 
my  fancy  stop  upon.  Remember  you  are  mine,  now, — my 
own,  my  very  own.  I  know  very  well  what  a  wretched 
drunkenness  there  is  in  that  sort  of  self-indulgence — what 
it  permits  itself  to  do,  all  on  the  strength  of  its  '  strong 
feeling '  '  earnestness  ' — stupid  in  execrable  sophistry  as 
it  is !  I  have  too  a  strong  belief  that  the  man  who  would 
bully  you,  would  drop  into  a  fit  at  the  sight  of  a  man's  up- 
lifted little  finger.  Can  this  person  be  the  '  old  friend  in 
an  ill  humour'  who  followed  me  up-stairs  one  day?  I 
trust  to  you — that  is  the  end  of  all. 

Now  I  will  kiss  you,  my  own  Ba,  and  wait  for  my  let- 
ter, and  then,  Tuesday.  Dearest,  I  am  your  own,  your 
very  own. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  August  10,  1846.] 

Ever  dearest,  I  shall  write  to  you  a  little  this  morning 
and  try  to  manage  to  post  myself  what  shall  be  written, 
too  early  to  permit  the  possibility  (almost)  of  your  being 
without  a  letter  to-morroAv.  Dearest,  how  you  were  with 
me  yesterday,  after  you  went  away  ! — I  thought,  thought, 
thought  of  you, — and  the  books  I  took  up  one  by  one  .  . 
(I  tried  a  romance  too  '  Les  Pemmes '  by  a  writer  called 
Desnoyers  .  .  quite  new,  and  weak  and  foolish  enough  as 
a  story,  but  full  of  clever  things  about  shoe  tyes  .  .  phi- 
losophy in  small :)  the  books  were  all  so  many  lorgnons 
through  which  I  looked  at  you  again  and  again.  Did  you 
ever  hear  a  story  of  the  late  Lord  Grey,  that  he  was 
haunted  by  a  head,  a  head  without  a  body?  If  he  turned 
to  the  right  or  left  there  it  was — if  he  looked  up  in  the  air, 
there  it  hung  .  .  or  down  to  the  floor,  there  it  lay — or 
walked  up  or  down  stairs,  there  it  bounded  before  him — > 


412  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  10 

flop  .  .  flop  .  .  just  on  its  chin,  'Alas,  poor  ghost?  '  And 
just  such  another,  as  far  as  the  haunting  goes,  were  you 
to  me,  dearest,  yesterday — only  that  you  were  of  the  celes- 
tial rather  than  ghastly  apparitionery,  and  bore  plainly 
with  you  airs  from  Heaven  full  against  my  forehead. 
How  did  I  ever  deserve  you— how  ever?  Never  indeed! 
And  how  can  it  seem  right  to  submit  to  so  much  happi- 
ness undeservedly  as  the  knowledge  of  your  affection 
gives,  you  who  are  '  great  in  everything,'  as  Mr.  Kenyon 
said  the  other  day !  Shall  I  tell  you  how  I  reconcile  my- 
self to  the  good?  Thus  it  is.  First  I  think  that  no 
woman  in  the  world,  let  her  be  ever  so  much  better  than 
I,  could  quite  be  said  to  deserve  you — and  that  therefore 
there  may  not  be  such  harm  in  your  taking  the  one  who 
will  owe  you  most  with  the  fullest  consciousness !  If  it 
may  not  be  merit,  it  shall  be  gratitude — that  is  how  I  look 
at  it  when  I  would  keep  myself  from  falling  back  into  the 
old  fears.  Ah !  you  may  prevent  my  rising  up  to  receive 
you  .  .  though  I  did  not  know  that  I  did  .  .  it  was  a 
pure  instinct! — but  you  cannot  prevent  my  sinking  down 
to  the  feet  of  your  spirit  when  I  think  of  the  love  it  has 
given  me  from  the  beginning  and  not  taken  away.  Dear- 
est, dearest — I  am  content  to  owe  all  to  you — it  is  not  too 
much  humiliation ! 

While  I  was  writing,  came  Mr.  Kenyon  .  .  the  spec- 
tacles mended,  and  looking  whole  catechisms  from  behind 
them.  The  first  word  was,  '  Have  you  seen  Browning 
lately  ? '  I,  taken  by  surprise,  answered  en  niaise,  '  Yes, 
yesterday.'  'And  did  he  tell  you  that  he  was  coming 
on  Wednesday,  next  Wednesday  ?  '  '  He  said  something 
of  it.' 

A  simpleton  would  have  done  better — to  call  me  one 
were  too  much  honour ! — yet  it  seemed  impossible  to  be 
adroit  under  the  fire  of  the  full  face,  spectacles  included. 
The  words  came  without  the  will.  And  now,  what  had 
we  better  do?  Take  Tuesday,  that  you  may  be  able  to 
say  on  Wednesday,  '  I  was  not  there  to-day  '  .  ,  ?   or  be 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  413 

frank  for  the  hour  and  let  it  all  pass?  Think  for  us, 
Eobert — I  am  quite  frightened  at  what  I  have  done.  It 
seemed  to  me  too,  afterwards,  that  Mr.  Kenyon  looked 
grave.  Still  he  talked  of  Miss  Mitford  and  Mr.  Bucking- 
ham, and  Landor,  and  of  going  to  the  Lakes  himself  for  a 
few  days,  and  laughed  and  jested  in  great  good  humour, 
the  subject  being  turned' — he  asked  me  too  if  I«  had  ever 
discussed  your  poetry  with  Miss  Mitford,  on  which  I  said 
that  she  did  not  much  believe  in  you—'  Not  even  in 
"Saul"?'  said  he.  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I  am 
in  a  fog  off  the  Nore.  And  he  proposed  coming  to-mor- 
row with  a  carriage,  to  drive  me  up  the  Harrow  road  to 
see  the  train  coming  in,  and  then  to  take  me  to  his  house, 
and,  so,  home, — all  in  his  infinite  kindness.  He  comes 
at  half-past  three — let  me  have  your  thoughts  with  me 
then — and  the  letter,  farther  on.  Two  letters,  I  am  to  have 
to-morrow.  If  Sunday  is  the  worst  day,  Monday  is  the 
best, — of  those  I  mean  of  course,  on  which  I  do  not  see 
you.  May  God  bless  you,  my  own  beloved.  I  love  you 
in  the  deepest  of  my  heart;  which  seems  ever  to  grow 
deeper.  I  live  only  for  you;  and  feel  that  it  is  worth 
while. 

Your  Ba. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  10,  1846.] 

You  dearest  Ba,  do  you  write  thus  to  put  all  thoughts 
of  fear  out  of  my  head,  and  make  me  confident  nothing  can 
go  ill  with  us  if  you  feel  so  for  me?  I  seem  to  have  a  pre- 
sentiment that  this  afternoon,  before  this  letter  reaches 
you,  Mr.  Kenyon  will  have  spoken — and  if  the  whole 
world  spoke  its  loudest,  your  words  would  be  all  I  should 
hear.  Or  are  they  trials,  every  such  word,  of  my  vanity 
and  weakness, — do  jon  think,  '  if  anything  can  call  them 
up,  this  will?  '     No,  I  very  well  know  your  entire  truth 


414  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  10 

in  this  and  the  other  assurances  I  make  my  life  bright 
with, — through  any  darkness  that  can  come.  What  you 
choose  to  assert  of  yourself,  1  feel  of  myself  every  hour. 
But  there  must  be  this  disproportionateness  in  a  beloved 
object- — before  I  knew  you,  women  seemed  not  so  much 
better  than  myself, — therefore,  no  love  for  them!  There 
is  no  love  but  from  beneath,  far  beneath, — that  is  the  law 
of  its  nature — and  now,  no  more  of  words — will  there  in- 
deed be  need  of  no  more, — as  I  dare  hope  and  believe,  will 
the  deeds  suffice? — not  in  their  own  value,  no ! — but  in  their 
plain,  certain  intention, — as  a  clear  advance  beyond  mere 
words?  We  shall  soon  know — if  you  live,  you  will  be 
mine,  I  must  think — you  have  put  these  dear  arms  too 
surely  round  my  neck  to  be  disengaged  now.  I  cannot 
presume  to  suggest  thoughts  to  you,  resolutions  for  the 
future — you  must  impart  to  me  always, — but  I  do  lift  up 
my  heart  in  an  aspiration  to  lead  the  life  that  seems  ac- 
corded by  your  side,  under  your  eyes. — I  cannot  write  on 
this,  dear  Ba, — to  say,  I  will  live  and  work  as  I  ought, 
seems  too  presumptuous.  Understand  all,  and  help  me 
with  your  dearest  hand,  my  own  love ! 

As  I  say,  I  fancy  Mr.  Kenyon  will  speak — I  only  hope, 
the  caution  will  act  both  ways,  and  that  he  will  see  as 
much  inexpediency  in  altogether  opposing  as  in  encourag- 
ing such  a  step.  That  you  should  pass  another  winter  and 
the  risk  of  it — and  perhaps  many — that  seems  the  ivorst 
fate.     Can  he  apprehend  any  worse  evil  than  that? 

I  observe  in  the  Times  to-day  that  the  Peninsular  & 
Oriental  Steam  Company  have  advertised  a  ship  from 
Southampton  to  Genoa,  Leghorn,  Civita  Vecchia  and 
Naples  on  the  30th  September,  and  that  '  thenceforth  the 
company  will  despatch  a  first-class  steamer  to  those  ports 
on  the  15th  of  every  month.'  One  more  facility,  should 
circumstances  require  it.  Are  you  sure  that  the  France 
journey  with  the  delays  and  fatigue  is  preferable  to  this — 
where  if  the  expenses  are  greater,  yet  the  uncertain  ex- 
penses are  impossible?     You  are  to  think,  beloved. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  415 

Now,  will  you  write  to-night?  I  may  come  to-morrow? 
Say  one  word — you  have  heard  why  I  wanted  to  come, 
even  if  Mr.  Kenyon's  questions  had  not  been  put — other- 
wise, Friday  will  be  impossible — I  can  say,  '  I  called  on 
Saturday,  and  think  of  doing  so  next  Friday — '  I  must  see 
you  to-morrow  indeed,  love ! 

Let  me  leave  off  here — I  love  you  wholly,  and  bless  you 
ever  as  now — Your  own  E. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  11,  1846.] 

Then  let  it  be  Tuesday.  It  will  correct,  too,  my  stupid- 
ity to  Mr.  Kenyon,  for  easily  you  may  reply  to  his  certain 
question,  that  you  had  not  been  here  on  Wednesday  but 
meant  to  go  on  Friday  instead.  Ah  well !  By  the  time 
all  this  is  over  we  shall  be  fit  to  take  a  degree  in  some 
Jesuits'  college — we  shall  have  mastered  all  the  points  of 
casuistry.  To  wash  one's  hands  of  it,  and  then  throw 
away  the  water,  will  be  something  gained  at  least. 

Dearest,  no,  indeed! — there  is  nothing  for  your  good- 
ness to  do  in  that  badness  I  told  you  of,  and  which  you 
describe  so  precisely  in  your  word, '  drunkenness  '  of  mind. 
It  is  precisely  that,  and  no  more  nor  less— a  throwing  off 
of  moral  restraint  .  .  a  miserable  degradation.  One  may 
get  angry,  frightened,  disgusted — but,  after  all,  compas- 
sion comes  in : — and  who  would  think  of  fighting  a  deli- 
rious man  with  a  sword?  It  would  be  a  cruelty,  like 
murder.  There  is  a  fine  nature  too,  under  these  ruins  of 
the  will ;  and  a  sensibility  which  strikes  inwards  and  out- 
wards—(no  one  else  should  have  any  sensibility,  within  a 
thousand  miles.)  Think  of  a  sort  of  dumb  Rousseau,— 
with  the  '  Confessions '  in  him,  pining  evermore  to  get 
out !  A  miserable  man,  first  by  constitution  and  next  by 
fortune — seeing  only  the  shadow,  for  the  sun, — the  nettles 
in  the  field, — and  breathing  hard  when  he  stands  among 


416  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  11 

garden-roses,   to  attain  to  smelling  the  onions  over  the 
wall.     I  have  told  him  sometimes  that  he  had  a  talent  for 
anger ! — c  indignatio  facit  orationes : '  and  that  is  his  pleas- 
ure, '  par  excellence,' — to  be  let  talk  against  this  abuse  or 
that  abuse,  this  class  of  men  or  that  class  of  men,  this  or 
that  world's  misery  or  offence  :■ — he  will  rise  up  in  it  and  be 
eloquent  and  happy.      Otherwise  .  .  mecreants  we  must 
be,  he  thinks,  who  dare  to  be  happy  in  this  vale  of  tears. 
Life  is  a  long  moan  to  him.     And  is   not  such  a  man 
enough  punished?     For  me,  I  have  not  had  the  heart  to 
take  quite  the  position  I  ought  to  have  done,  looking  only 
to  his  most  outrageous  bearing  towards  myself — although 
he  talks  of  my  scorn  and  sarcasms,  as  if  I  had  shown  my- 
self quite  equal  to  self-defence.     An  old,  old  friend,  too ! — 
known  as  a  friend  these  twelve  or  thirteen  years!     And 
then,  men  are  nearly  all  the  same  in  the  point  of  wanting 
generosity  to  women.     It  is  a  sin  of  sex,  be  sure — and  we 
have  our  counter-sins  and  should  be  merciful.     So  I  have 
been  furiously  angry,  and  then  relented — by  turns;  as  I 
could.     Oh   yes — it  was   he  who  followed  you  upstairs. 
There  was  an  explosion  that  day  among  the  many — and  I 
had  to  tell  him  as  a  consequence,  that  if  he  chose  to  make 
himself  the  fable  and  jest  of  the  whole  house,  he  was  the 
master,  but  that  I  should  insist  upon  his  not  involving  my 
name  in  the  discussion  of  his  violences.     Wilson  said  he 
was  white  with  passion  as  he  followed  you,  and  that  she 
in  fear  trembled  so  she  could  scarcely  open  the  door.     He 
was  a  little  ashamed  afterwards,  and  apologized  in  a  man- 
ner for  what  sufficiently  required  an  apology.     Before  a 
servant  too ! — But  that  is  long  ago — and  at  that  time  he 
knew  nothing  for  a  certainty.     Is  it  possible  to  be  continu- 
ously angry  with  any  one  who  proves  himself  so  much  the 
iveaker  ?    The  slave  of  himself  .  .  of  his  own  passions — is 
too  unhappy  for  the  rod  of  another — man  or  woman. 

Mr.  Chorley — Mr.  Chorley  ! — how  could  he  utter  such 
words!  Men  seem  imbecile  sometimes — understandings 
have  they,  and  understand  not. 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  417 

Monday  Night. 

Dearest,  I  have  your  last  letter.  Thank  you  out  of  my 
heart — though  you  are  not  a  prophet,  dear  dearest — not 
about  Mr.  Kenyon  at  least.  See  how  far  you  are  from  the 
truth-well,  with  that  divining  hazel  which  you  wave  to  and 
fro  before  my  eyes.  Mr.  Kenyon,  instead  of  too  much  re- 
membering us,  has  forgotten  me  to-day.  I  waited  an  hour 
with  my  bonnet  on,  and  he  did  not  come.  And  then  came 
a  note !  He  had  had  business — he  had  forgotten  me — he 
would  come  to-morrow.  Which  I,  thinking  of  you,  wrote 
back  a  word  against,  and  begged  him  to  come  rather  on 
Thursday  or  Saturday,  or  Monday.  Is  that  right,  dearest? 
Your  coming  to-morrow  will  be  very  right. 

But  when  you  say  that  there  can  be  no  love  except 
'from  heneath''  .  .  is  it  right?  is  it  comforting  to  hear  of  ? 
No,  no — indeed !  How  unhappy  I  should  be  if  I  accepted 
your  theory !    So  I  accept  rather  your  love,  beloved  .  . 

Trusting  to  be  yours. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  12,  1846.] 

I  have  been  putting  all  the  letters  into  rings — twenty 
together — and  they  look  now  as  they  should — '  infinite 
treasure  in  a  little  room  ' — note,  that  they  were  so  united 
and  so  ranged  from  the  beginning,  at  least  since  I  began  to 
count  by  twenties- — but  the  white  tape  I  used  (no  red  tape, 
thank  you!)  was  vile  in  its  operation, — the  untying  and 


retying  (so  as  to  preserve  a  proper  cross    ^Cls^aP^a )  nar(i 


for  clumsy  fingers  like  mine: — these  rings  are  perfect. 
How  strange  it  will  be  to  have  no  more  letters !  Of  all  the 
foolishnesses  that  ever  were  uttered  that  speech  of  mine, — 
about  your  letters  strewing  the  house, — was  the  most  thor- 
Vol.  II.— 27 


418  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  12 
oughly  perfect!  yet  you  have  nothing  to  forgive  in  me, 


vou  say 


Just  now  I  took  up  a  periodical  and  read  a  few  lines  of 
a  paper  on  the  charm  that  there  is  in  a  contrariety  of 
tempers  and  tastes,  for  friends  and  lovers — and  there  fol- 
lowed platitudes  in  a  string — the  clever  like  the  stupid,  the 
grave  choose  the  likely,  and  so  forth.  Now,  unless,  the 
state  of  the  liker  and  chooser  is  really  considered  by  him 
as  a  misfortune, — what  he  would  get  rid  of  if  he  could  in 
himself,  so  shall  hardly  desire  to  find  in  another — except 
in  this  not  very  probable  case,  is  there  not  implied  by 
every  such  choice,  an  absolute  despair  of  any  higher  one? 
The  grave  man  says  (or  would  if  he  knew  himself) — '  ex- 
cept on  my  particular  grounds  such  a  serious  humour 
would  be  impossible  and  absurd  .  .  and  where  can  I  find 
another  to  appreciate  them?  Better  accept  the  lower  state 
of  ignorance  that  they  exist  even,  and  consequent  gaiety, — 
than  a  preposterous  melancholy  arising  from  no  adequate 
cause. '  And  what  man  of  genius  would  not  associate  with 
people  of  no  talent  at  all,  rather  than  the  possessors  of 
mere  talent,  who  keep  sufficiently  near  him,  as  they  walk 
together,  to  give  him  annoyance  at  every  step?  Better  go 
with  Flush  on  his  four  legs,  avowedly  doglike,  than  with  a 
monkey  who  will  shuffle  along  on  two  for  I  don't  know 
how  many  yards.  Now  for  instance,  is  the  writer  of  that 
wise  notice  of  Landor  in  last  week's  AtJwnceum,  one  whit 
nearer  your  sympathy  in  that  precise  matter,  than  some- 
body who  never  heard  of  Landor  or  supposed  him  to  have 
usually  written  under  the  signature  of  L.  E.  L.  ?  With  the 
exception  of  a  word  or  two  about  the  silly  abuse  of  Plato, 
and  on  the  occasional  unfairness  of  statement,  is  there  one 
word  right  and  seasonable? 

Here  am  I  letting  the  words  scratch  themselves  one 
after  another  while  my  thought  as  usual  goes  quite  another 
way.  Perhaps  my  wits  are  resting  because  of  the  great 
alacrity  they  are  to  display  at  Mr.  Kenyon's  this  evening 
.  .  I  shall  take  care  not  to  be  first  comer,  nor  last  goer, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  419 

Dearest,  you  are  wrong  in  your  fancy  about  my  little  car- 
ing whether  he  knows  or  does  not.  I  see  altogether  with 
your  eyes  .  .  indeed,  now  that  you  engage  to  remove  any 
suspicion  of  unkindness  or  mistrust  which  might  attach  to 
me  in  his  thoughts  (all  I  ever  apprehended  for  myself), 
there  is  no  need  to  consider  him — at  all.  He  can  do  no 
good  nor  harm.  Did  you  ever  receive  such  a  letter?  The 
dull  morning  shall  excuse  it — anything  but  the  dull  heart 
■ — for  you  fill  it,  however  the  heat  may  keep  within,  some- 
times. 

Bless  you,  Ba,  my  dearest,  perfect  love — now  I  will 
begin  thinking  of  you  again — let  me  kiss  you,  my  own ! 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  12,  1846.] 

Shall  you  pass  through  this  street  to  Mr.  Kenyon's,  this 
evening?  I  have  been  sitting  here  these  five  minutes, 
wondering.  But  no  answer  is  possible  now,  and  if  I  go  to 
the  window  of  the  other  room  and  look  up  and  look  down 
about  half-past  five  or  a  little  later,  it  will  be  in  vain  per- 
haps. Just  now  I  have  heard  from  Mr.  Kenyon,  who  can- 
not come  to-day  to  drive  with  me  though  he  may  come  to 
talk.  He  does  not  leave  London,  he  says,  so  soon  as  he 
thought ! — more's  the  pity.  Ah !  What  unkind  things  one 
learns  to  write  and  meditate  in  this  world,  even  of  the  dear 
Mr.  Kenyons  in  ijfc! —  I  am  ashamed.  Instruct  your 
guardian  angel  to  cover  me  with  the  shadow  of  his  wings, 
■ — dearest. 

Now  I  will  tell  you  a  curious  thing  which  Tr&ppy  said 
to  Arabel  yesterday  while  you  and  I  were  together.  Arabel 
was  walking  with  her,  and  she  was  in  one  of  her  ill  hu- 
mours, poor  Treppy,  sighing  and  moaning  over  the  wicked- 
ness of  the  people  in  Wimpole  Street — she  '  should  go  and 
live  at  Bamsgate,  she  thought,  as  nobody  paid  her  the 
right  attention ! '     That's  the  intermittent  groan,  when  she 


420  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  12 

is  out  of  humour,  poor  Treppy.  '  And  besides  '  said  she, 
'  it  is  much  better  that  I  should  not  go  to  Wimpole  Street 
at  this  time  when  there  are  so  many  secrets.  Secrets  in- 
deed! You  think  that  nobody  can  see  and  hear  except 
yourselves,  I  suppose;  and  there  are  two  circumstances 
going  on  in  the  house,  plain  for  any  eyes  to  see !  and  those 
are  considered  secrets,  I  suppose.'  '  Oh,  Treppy  ' — inter- 
polated Arabel  .  .  'you  are  always  fancying  secrets  where 
there  are  none.'  'Well,  I  don't  fancy  anything  now!  I 
know — just  as  you  do.' — Something  was  said  too  about 
'  Ba's  going  to  Italy.'  'And,  Treppy,  do  you  think  that 
she  will  go  to  Italy  ?  '  '  Why  there  is  only  one  way  for  her 
to  go — but  she  may  go  that  way.  If  she  marries,  she  may 
go. '  '  And  you  would  not  be  surprised  ?  '  '  I!  not  in  the 
least—/  am  never  surprised,  because  I  always  see  things 
from  the  beginning.  Nobody  can  hide  anything  from 
me. '  After  which  fashion  she  smoothed  the  darkness  till 
it  smiled,  and  boasted  herself  back  into  a  calmer  mood. 
But  just  observe  how  people  are  talking  and  inferring !  It 
frightens  me  to  think  of  it.  Not  that  there  is  any  danger 
from  Treppy.  She  would  as  soon  cut  off  her  hand,  as 
bring  one  of  us  into  a  difficulty,  and  me,  the  last.  Only  it 
would  not  do  to  tell  her, — she  must  have  it  in  her  power  to 
say  '  I  did  not  know  this  '  .  .  for  reasons  of  the  strongest. 
To  occasion  a  schism  between  her  and  this  house,  would 
be  to  embitter  the  remainder  of  her  days. 

Here  is  a  letter  from  a  lady  in  a  remote  district  called 
Swineshead,  who  sends  me  lyrical  specimens,  and  desires 
to  know  if  this  be  Genius.  She  does  not  desire  to  publish; 
at  any  rate  not  for  an  indefinite  number  of  years ;  but  for  her 
private  and  personal  satisfaction,  she  would  be  glad  to  be 
informed  whether  she  is  a  Sappho  or  George  Sand  or  any- 
thing of  that  kind.  What  in  the  world  is  to  be  answered, 
now,  to  an  application  of  that  kind!  To  meddle  with  a 
person's  opinion  of  himself  or  herself  (quite  a  private 
opinion)  seems  like  meddling  with  his  way  of  dressing, 
with  her  fashion  of  putting  in  pins — like  saying  you  shall 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  421 

put  your  feet  on  a  stool,  or  you  shan't  eat  pork.  It  is  an 
interference  with  private  rights,  from  which  I  really  do 
shrink.  Unfortunately  too  it  is  impossible  to  say  what 
she  wants  to  hear — I  am  in  despair  about  it.  When  we 
are  at  Pisa  we  shall  not  hear  these  black  stones  crying 
after  us  any  more  perhaps.  I  shall  listen,  instead,  to  my 
talking  bird  and  singing  tree,  and  repose  from  the  rest. 
How  did  you  get  home?  And  tell  me  of  Mr.  Kenyon's 
dinner !  So  nervous  I  am  about  Mr.  Kenyon,  when  you  or 
I  happen  to  be  en  rapgprt  with  him. 

Not  only  I  loved  you  yesterday,  but  even  to-day  I  love 
you ;  which  is  remarkable.  To-morrow  and  to-morrow  and 
to-morrow,  what  will  you  do?  Is  that  an  '  offence?  '  Nay, 
but  it  is  rather  reasonable  that  when  the  hour  strikes,  the 
fairy-gold  should  turn  back  into  leaves,  and  poor  Cinder- 
ella find  herself  sitting  in  her  old  place  among  the  ashes, 
just  as  she  had  touched  the  hand  of  the  king's  son. 

Don't  think  I  mean  anything  by  that,  ever  dearest — not 
so  much  as  to  teaze  you— Robert ! 

I  only  love  you  to-day — that  is,  I  love  you  and  do  noth- 
ing more.  And  the  Fairy  Tales  are  on  the  whole,  I  feel, 
the  most  available  literature  for  illustration,  whenever  I 
think  of  loving  you. 


Your  own  Ba. 


K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 


Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  August  13,  1846.] 

Did  I  ever  receive  such  a  letter?  '     Never — except  from 
you.     It  is  a  question  easily  answered. 

As  to  [the]  other  question,  about  the  communion  of 
contrarieties,  I  agree  with  you,  thought  for  thought,  in  all 
your  thinking  about  it — only  adding  one  more  reason  to 
the  reasons  you  point  out.  There  is  another  reason  at  the 
bottom  of  all,  /  think — I  cannot  but  think — and  it  is  just 
that,  when  women  are  chosen  for  wives,  they  are  not 


422  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  13 

chosen  for  companions — that  when  they  are  selected  to  be 
loved,  it  is  quite  apart  from  life — c  man's  love  is  of  man's 
life  a  thing  apart. '  A  German  professor  selects  a  woman 
who  can  merely  stew  prunes — not  because  stewing  prunes 
and  reading  Proclus  make  a  delightful  harmony,  but  be- 
cause he  wants  his  prunes  stewed  for  him  and  chooses  to 
read  Proclus  by  himself.  A  fulness  of  sympathy,  a  shar- 
ing of  life,  one  with  another,  .  .  is  scarcely  ever  looked 
for  except  in  a  narrow  conventional  sense.  Men  like  to 
come  home  and  find  a  blazing  fire  and  a  smiling  face  and 
an  hour  of  relaxation.  Their  serious  thoughts,  and  ear- 
nest aims  in  life,  they  like  to  keep  on  one  side.  And  this 
is  the  carrying  out  of  love  and  marriage  almost  everywhere 
in  the  world — and  this,  the  degrading  of  women  by  both. 

For  friendship  .  .  why  Like  seeks  Like  in  friendship 
very  openly.  To  '  have  sympathy  '  with  a  person,  is  a 
good  banal  current  motive  for  friendship.  Yet  (for  the 
minor  points)  a  man  with  a  deficiency  of  animal  spirits 
may  like  the  society  of  a  man  who  can  amuse  him,  and  the 
amusing  man  may  have  pleasure  again  in  the  sense  of 
using  a  faculty  and  conferring  a  benefit.  It  is  happily  pos- 
sible to  love  down,  and  even  across  a  chasm — or  the  world 
would  be  more  loveless  than  it  is.  I  have  loved  and  still 
love  people  a  thousand  souls  off — as  you  have  and  do,  of 
course ; — but  to  love  them  tetter  on  that  account,  would  be 
strange  and  difficult. 

Always  I  know,  my  beloved,  that  I  am  unworthy  of 
your  love  in  a  hundred  ways— yet  I  do  hold  fast  my  sense 
of  advantage  in  one, — that,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  I  see  after 
you  .  .  understand  you,  divine  you  .  .  call  you  by  your 
right  name.  Then  it  is  something  to  be  able  to  look  at 
life  itself  as  you  look  at  it —  (I  quite  sigh  sometimes  with 
satisfaction  at  that  thought !) :  there  will  be  neither  hope 
nor  regret  away  from  your  footsteps.  Dearest — I  feel  to 
myself  sometimes,  '  Do  not  move,  do  not  speak — or  the 
dream  will  vanish. '  So  fearfully  like  a  dream,  it  is !  Like 
a  reflection  in  the  water  of  an  actual  old,  old  dream  of  my 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEEETT  423 

own,  too  .  .  touching  which,  .  .  now  silent  voices  used  to 
say  "That  romantic  child." 

What  did  you  mean  to  say  about  my  not  believing  in 
your  nature  .  .  in  your  feelings  .  .  what  did  you  and 
could  you  mean  yesterday?  Was  it  because  of  my  speech 
about  the  'calm  eyes'  ?  Ah — you!— I  did  not  think  to 
make  so  impressive  a  speech  when  I  made  it  .  .  for  this 
is  not  the  first  time,  Robert,  you  have  quoted  Hansard  for 
it.  Well !  I  shall  not  rise  to  explain  after  all.  Only  I  do 
justice  to  the  whole  subject  .  .  eyes  inclusively  .  .  '  what- 
ever you  may  think '  as  you  said  yesterday  with  ever  such 
significance. 

No — yes — now  I  will  ask  you  one  thing.  Common  eyes 
will  carry  an  emotion  of  a  soul — and,  so,  not  be  calm,  of 
course.     Calm  ones,  I  know,  will  carry  the  whole  soul  and 

float  it  up  against  yours,  till  it  loses  footing,  and 

That  is  a  little  of  what  I  meant  by  the  calm  in  the  eyes, 
and  so  I  will  ask  you  whether  I  could  wrong,  by  such 
meaning,  any  depth  in  the  nature. 

At  this  moment  you  are  at  Mr.  Kenyon's — and  you  did 
not,  I  think,  go  up  this  street.  Perhaps  you  will  go  home 
through  it — but  I  shall  not  see — I  cannot  watch,  being 
afraid  of  the  over- watchers.  May  God  bless  you,  my  own 
dearest!  You  have  my  heart  with  you  as  if  it  lay  in  your 
hand !  I  told  you  once  that  I  never  could  love  (in  this  way 
of  love)  except  upward  very  far  and  high — but  you  are  not 
like  me  in  it,  I  thank  God — since  you  can  love  me.  Love 
me,  dearest  of  all — do  not  tire.     I  am  your  very  own 

Ba. 

Another  Bennett !  ! — yet  the  same. !     To  Friday. 


424  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  13 


B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  August  13,  1846.] 

Dearest  Ba,  I  love  you  wholly  and  for  ever !  How  shall 
the  charm  ever  break? 

My  two  letters !  I  think  we  must  institute  solemn  days 
whereon  such  letters  are  to  be  read  years  hence  .  .  when 
I  shall  ask  you, — (all  being  known,  many  weaknesses  you 
do  not  choose  to  see  now,  and  perhaps  some  strength  and 
constancy  you  cannot  be  sure  of — for  the  charm  may  break, 
you  think)  .  .  '  If  you  stood  there '  .  .  at  Wimpole  Street 
in  the  room  .  .  would  you  whisper  '  Love,  I  love  you,  as 
before?  '  Oh,  how  fortunately,  fortunately  the  next  verse 
comes  with  its  sweetest  reassurance ! 

When  I  have  chosen  to  consider  the  circumstances  of 
the  altered  life  I  am  about  to  lead  with  you  .  .  ('  chosen, ' 
because  you  have  often  suggested  drawbacks,  harms  to  my 
interest  &c.  which  I  have  really  been  forced  to  take  up  and 
try  to  think  over  seriously,  lest  I  should  be  unawares  found 
treating  what  had  undoubtedly  come  from  you  with  disre- 
spect), I  never,  after  all  the  considering  in  my  power,  was 
yet  able  to  fancy  even  the  possibility  of  their  existence.  I 
will  not  revert  to  them  now — nor  to  the  few  real  inconven- 
iences which  I  did  apprehend  at  the  beginning,  but  which 
never  occurred  to  you:  at  present  I  take  you,  and  with  you 
as  much  happiness  as  I  seem  fit  to  bear  in  this  world, — the 
one  shadow  being  the  fear  of  its  continuance.  Or  if  there 
is  one  thing  I  shall  regret  .  .  it  is  just  that  which  I  should 
as  truly  lose  if  I  married  any  Miss  Campbell  of  them  all — ■ 
rather,  then  should  really  lose,  what  now  is  only  modified, 
— transferred  partly  and  the  rest  retainable.  There  was 
always  a  great  delight  to  me  in  this  prolonged  relation  of 
childhood  almost  .  .  nay  altogether — with  all  here.  My 
father  and  I  have  not  one  taste  in  common,  one  artistic 
taste  .  .  in  pictures,  he  goes,  '  souls  away, '  to  Brauwer, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  425 

Ostade,  Terriers  .  .  he  would  turn  from  the  Sistine  Altar 
piece  to  these — in  music  he  desiderates  a  tune  '  that  has  a 
story  connected  with  it,'  whether  Charles  II.' s  favourite 
dance  of  '  Brose  and  butter  '  or — no  matter,  — what  I  mean 
is,  that  the  sympathy  has  not  been  an  intellectual  one.  I 
hope  if  you  want  to  please  me  especially,  Ba,  you  will  al- 
ways remember  I  have  been  accustomed,  by  pure  choice, 
to  have  another  will  lead  mine  in  the  little  daily  matters  of 
life.  If  there  are  two  walks  to  take  (to  put  the  thing  at 
simplest)  you  must  say,  '  This  one '  and  not  '  either '  .  . 
because  though  they  were  before  indifferently  to  be  chosen 
— after  that  speech,  one  is  altogether  better  than  the  other, 
to  one  if  not  to  you.  When  you  have  a  real  preference 
which  I  can  discern,  you  will  be  good  enough  to  say  noth- 
ing about  it,  my  own  Ba !  Now,  do  you  not  see  how,  with 
this  feeling,  which  God  knows  I  profess  to  be  mine  with- 
out the  least  affectation, — how  much  my  happiness  would 
be  disturbed  by  allying  myself  with  a  woman  to  whose  in- 
tellect, as  well  as  goodness,  I  could  not  look  up? — in  an 
obedience  to  whose  desires,  therefore,  I  should  not  be  jus- 
tified in  indulging?  It  is  pleasanter  to  lie  back  on  the 
cushions  inside  the  carriage  and  let  another  drive — but  if 
you  suspect  he  cannot  drive? 

Nothing  new  at  Mr.  Kenyon's  yesterday — I  arrived  late 
to  a  small  party — Thackeray  and  Procter — pleasant  as 
usual.  I  took  an  opportunity  of  mentioning  that  I  had 
come  straight  from  home.  Did  you  really  look  from  the 
window,  dearest?  I  was  carried  the  other  way,  by  the 
new  road,  but  I  thought  of  you  till  you  may  have  felt  it ! 

And  indeed  you  are  '  out '  again  as  to  my  notions  of 
your  notions,  you  dearest  Ba !  I  know  well  enough  that 
by  '  calmness '  you  did  not  mean  absence  of  passion — I 
spoke  only  of  the  foolish  popular  notion. 

To-morrow  there  would  seem  to  be  no  impediment 
whatever — and  I  trust  to  be  with  you,  beloved — but  before, 
I  can  kiss  you  as  now, — loving  you  as  ever — ever — 

Your  own. 


426  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  15 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Saturday  Morning. 
[August  IS,  1846.] 

A  bright  beautiful  clay  this  is,  on  which  you  do  not 
come — it  seems  as  if  you  ought  to  have  come  on  it  by 
rights.  Dearest,  you  did  not  meet  Mr.  Ken  yon  yesterday 
after  you  left  me?  I  fancied  that  you  might,  and  so  be  de- 
tected in  the  three  hours,  to  the  fullest  length  of  them — it 
seemed  possible.  Now  I  look  forward  to  the  driving  in- 
stead of  to  you— and  he  has  just  sent  to  desire  me  to  be 
ready  at  a  quarter  to  three,  and  not  later,  as  was  fixed  in 
your  hearing.  And  why,  pray,  should  you  be  glad  that  I 
am  going  on  this  excursion?  I  should  have  liked  it,  if 
we  had  been  living  in  the  daylight;  but  with  all  these 
'  shadows,  clouds  and  darkness, '  it  is  pleasanter  to  me  to 
sit  still  and  see  nobody — and  least,  Mr.  Kenyon.  Oh, 
that  somebody  would  spirit  him  away  gently,  very  gently, 
so  as  to  do  him  no  manner  of  harm  in  achieving  the  good 
for  me ! — for  both  you  and  me.  Did  you  say  '  Do  you 
pity  me  '  to  me?  I  did  not  tell  you  yesterday  that  I  have 
another  new  fear  .  .  an  American  lady  who  in  her  time 
has  reviewed  both  you  and  me,  it  seems,  comes  to  see  me 
.  .  is  about  to  come  to  see  me  .  .  armed  with  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Mr.  Mathews — and  in  a  week,  I  may 
expect  her  perhaps.  She  is  directed,  too,  towards  Mr. 
Home.  Observe  the  double  chain  thrown  across  the  road 
at  my  feet — I  am  entreated  to  show  her  attention  and  in- 
troduce her  to  my  friends  .  .  things  out  of  the  question  as 
I  am  situated.  Yet  I  have  not  boldness  to  say  '  I  will  not 
see  you. '  I  almost  must  see  her,  I  do  fear.  Mr.  Mathews 
ought  to  have  felt  his  way  a  little,  before  throwing  such  a 
weight  on  me.  He  is  delighted  with  your  '  Bells  and 
Pomegranates '  (to  pass  from  his  frailties  to  his  merits) 
and  the  review  of  them  is  sent  to  me,  he  says— only  that 
I  do  not  receive  it. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  427 

Dearest,  when  I  told  you  yesterday,  after  speaking  of 
the  many  coloured  theologies  of  the  house,  that  it  was 
hard  to  answer  for  what  /  was,  .  .  I  meant  that  I  felt  un- 
willing, for  my  own  part,  to  put  on  any  of  the  liveries  of 
the  sects.  The  truth,  as  God  sees  it,  must  be  something 
so  different  from  these  opinions  about  truth— these  sys- 
tems which  fit  different  classes  of  men  like  their  coats,  and 
wear  brown  at  the  elbows  always !  I  believe  in  what  is 
divine  and  floats  at  highest,  in  all  these  different  theologies 
— and  because  the  really  Divine  draws  together  souls,  and 
tends  so  to  a  unity,  I  could  pray  anywhere  and  with  all 
sorts  of  worshippers,  from  the  Sistine  Chapel  to  Mr. 
Fox's,  those  kneeling  and  those  standing.  Wherever  you 
go,  in  all  religious  societies,  there  is  a  little  to  revolt,  and  a 
good  deal  to  bear  with — but  it  is  not  otherwise  in  the  world 
without;  and,  within,  you  are  especially  reminded  that 
God  has  to  be  more  patient  than  yourself  after  all.  Still 
you  go  quickest  there,  where  your  sympathies  are  least 
ruffled  and  disturbed — and  I  like,  beyond  comparison  best, 
the  simplicity  of  the  dissenters  .  .  the  unwritten  prayer, 
.  .  the  sacraments  administered  quietly  and  without  char- 
latanism !  and  the  principle  of  a  church,  as  they  hold  it,  1 
hold  it  too,  .  .  quite  apart  from  state-necessities  .  .  pure 
from  the  law.  Well — there  is  enough  to  dissent  from 
among  the  dissenters — the  Formula  is  rampant  among 
them  as  among  others — you  hear  things  like  the  buzzing 
of  flies  in  proof  of  a  corruption — and  see  every  now  and 
then  something  divine  set  up  like  a  post  for  men  of  irri- 
table minds  and  passions  to  rub  themselves  against,  calling 
it  a  holy  deed — you  feel  moreover  bigotry  and  ignorance 
pressing  on  you  on  all  sides,  till  you  gasp  for  breath  like 
one  strangled.  But  better  this,  even,  than  what  is  else- 
where— this  being  elsewhere  too  in  different  degrees,  be- 
sides the  evil  of  the  place.  Public  and  social  prayer  is 
right  and  desirable — and  I  would  prefer,  as  a  matter  of 
custom,  to  pray  in  one  of  those  chapels,  where  the  minister 
is  simple-minded  and  not  controversial — certainly  would 


428  THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEBT  BEOWNING  [August  15 

prefer  it.  Not  exactly  in  the  Socinian  chapels,  nor  yet  in 
Mr.  Fox's — not  by  preference.  The  Unitarians  seem  to 
me  to  throw  over  what  is  most  beautiful  in  the  Christian 
Doctrine ;  but  the  Formulists,  on  the  other  side,  stir  up  a 
dust,  in  which  it  appears  excusable  not  to  see.  When  the 
veil  of  the  body  falls,  how  we  shall  look  into  each  other's 
feces,  astonished,  .  .  after  one  glance  at  God's ! 

Have  I  written  to  you  more  than  too  much  about  my 
doxy?  I  was  a  little,  little,  uncomfortable  in  the  retro- 
spect of  j^esterday,  lest  my  quick  answer  should  have  struck 
you  as  either  a  levity  or  an  evasion — and  have  you  not  a 
right  to  all  my  thoughts  of  all  things?  For  the  rest,  we 
will  be  married  just  as  you  like  .  .  volo  quod  vis :  and  you 
will  see  by  this  profession  of  faith  that  I  am  not  likely 
much  to  care  either  way.  There  are  some  solemn  and 
beautiful  things  in  the  Church  of  England  Marriage-service, 
as  I  once  heard  it  read,  the  only  time  I  was  present  at  such 
a  ceremony — but  I  heard  it  then  in  the  abbreviated  cus- 
tomary form  .  .  and  not  as  the  Puseyites  (who  always 
bring  up  the  old  lamps  against  a  new)  choose  to  read  it, 
they  say,  in  spite  of  custom.  Archdeacon  Hale  with  an 
inodorous  old  lamp,  displeased  some  of  the  congregation 
from  Fenton's  Hotel,  I  hear.  But  we  need  not  go  to  the 
Puseyites  at  least.  And  after  all,  perhaps  the  best  will 
be  what  is  easiest.  Something  is  sure  to  happen — some- 
thing must  surely  happen  to  put  an  end  to  it  all  .  .  .  be- 
fore I  go  to  Greece ! 

May  God  bless  you,  ever  dearest :  Tell  me  if  you  get 
this  letter  to-day,  Saturday. 

Your  very  own  Ba. 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  429 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  August  15,  1846.] 

My  very,  very  dearest — many,  if  not  all,  of  those  things 
for  which  I  want  the  words  when  too  close  to  vou,  become 
quite  clear  at  a  little  distance.  How  simple,  for  instance, 
it  is  to  admit,  that  in  our  case, — my  own,  only  Ba  once 
discovered,  the  circumstances  of  the  weakness  and  retire- 
ment were,  on  the  whole,  favourable  rather  than  otherwise ! 
Had  they  been  unfavourable  .  .  I  do  not  think  a  few  ob- 
stacles would  have  discouraged  me  .  .  but  this  way  has 
been  easier — better — and  now  all  i3  admitted !  By  them- 
selves, the  circumstances  could  never  obtain  more  than  the 
feeling  properly  due  to  them — do  you  think  one  particle 
of  love  goes  with  the  pity  and  service  to  a  whole  Hospital 
of  Incurables?  So  let  all  the  attraction  of  that  kind  pass 
for  what  it  is  worth,  and  for  no  more.  If  all  had  been 
different,  and  I  had  still  perceived  you  and  loved  you, 
then  there  might,  perhaps, — or  probably — be  as  different 
an  aim  for  me,— for  my  own  peculiar  delight  in  you  .  .  I 
should  want  to  feel  and  be  sure  of  your  love,  in  your  hap- 
piness .  .  certainly  in  your  entire  happiness  then  as  now 
— but  I  should  aspire  to  find  it  able  to  support  itself  in  a 
life  altogether  different  from  the  life  in  which  I  had  first 
seen  you — if  you  loved  me  you  would  need  to  be  happy  in 
quiet  and  solitude  and  simplicity  and  privation  .  .  then  I 
should  know  you  loved  me,  knowing  how  you  had  been 
happy  before !  But  now,  do  you  not  see  that  my  utmost 
pride  and  delight  will  be  to  think  you  are  happy,  as  you 
were  not, — in  the  way  you  were  not:  if  you  chose  to  coma 
out  of  a  whirl  of  balls  and  parties  and  excursions  and  visit- 
ings — to  my  side,  I  should  love  you  as  you  sate  still  by 
me, — but  now,  when  you  stand  up  simply,  much  more 
walk  .  .  I  will  consider,  if  you  let  me,  every  step  you  take 
that  brings  you  pleasure, — every  smile  on  your  mouth,  and 


430  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  15 

light  on  your  eyes — as  a  directest  obedience  to  me  .  .  all 
the  obedience  yon  can  ever  pay  me  .  .  you  shall  say  in 
every  such  act  l  this  I  do  on  purpose  to  content  you! '  I 
hope  to  know  you  have  been  happy  .  .  that  shall  prove 
you  loved  me,  at  the  end. 

Probably  you  toill  not  hear  anything  to-day  from  Mr. 
Kenyon,  as  your  sister  is  to  be  present:  do  you  really 
imagine  that  those  eyes  and  spectacles  are  less  effective 
than  the  perceptions  of  your  '  Treppy  ?  ' 

By  the  way,  hear  an  odd  coincidence — you  heard  that 
foolish  story  of  Thackeray  and  Mr.  'Widdicombe'  .  . 
which  I  told  just  to  avoid  a  dead  silence  and  guilty  blank- 
ness  of  face.  As  I  was  returning  I  met  Thackeray  (with 
Doyle — H.B.)  and  was  energetically  reminded  of  our  din- 
ner .  .  he  is  in  very  earnest,  Mr.  Kenyon  may  assure  him- 
self. Presently  I  reached  Charing  Cross — and  stood  wait- 
ing for  my  omnibus.  There  is  always  a  crowd  of  waiters 
— in  a  moment  there  passes  an  extraordinary  looking  per- 
sonage— a  policeman  on  duty  at  this  police-requiring  spot 
saunters  up  to  me,  of  all  others,  and  says  (on  some  mirac- 
ulous impulse,  no  doubt) — with  an  overflowing  impres- 
sible grin,  (  D'ye  know  him,  Sir?  '  '  No — who  may  he 
be?  '  'He's  Widdicombe! — He  goes  now  to  Astley's,  and 
afterwards  to  Yauxhall — there's  a  good  likeness  of  him  in 
the  painting  of  the  Judge  and  Jury  Club.'  Here  my 
omnibus  arrives  .  .  '  Thank  you '  I  said — and  there  was 
an  end  of  the  communication.  How  for  many  thousand 
years  may  I  walk  the  street  before  another  inspired  police- 
man addresses  me  without  preface  and  tells  me,  that  is  the 
man  I  have  just  been  talking  of  to  somebody  else?  Let 
me  chronicle  Mr.  W. 's  glories  .  .  his  face  is  just  Tom 
Moore's,  jjIus  two  painted  cheeks,  a  sham  moustache,  and 
hair  curled  in  wiry  long  ringlets;  Thackeray's  friend  was 
a  friend  indeed,  '  warning  every  man  and  teaching  every 
man ' — the  tete-a-tete  would  have  been  portentous. 

Now,  dearest,  you  cannot  return  me  such  delectabilities, 
so  must  even  be  content  to  tell  me  what  happens  to-day  and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  431 

what  is  said  and  done  and  surmised — and  how  you  are  .  . 
three  times  over,  how  you  are,  dearest  dearest!  And  I 
will  write  to-morrow,  and  kiss  you  meanwhile,  as  now  as 
ever.     Bless  you,  love — 

your  E. 

F.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Saturday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  August  17,  1846.} 

How  I  thank  for  your  letter,  ever  beloved.  You  were- 
made  perfectly  to  be  loved — and  surely  I  have  loved  you, 
in  the  idea  of  you,  my  whole  life  long.  Did  I  tell  you  that 
before,  so  often  as  I  have  thought  it?  It  is  that  which 
makes  me  take  it  all  as  visionary  good — for  when  one's 
Ideal  comes  down  to  one,  and  walks  beside  one  suddenly, 
what  is  it  possible  to  do  but  to  cry  out  .  .  '  a  dream? ' 
You  are  the  best  .  .  best.  And  if  you  loved  me  only  and 
altogether  for  pity,  (and  I  think  that,  more  than  you  think, 
the  sentiment  operated  upon  your  generous  chivalrous 
nature),  and  if  you  confessed  it  to  me  and  proved  it,  and  I 
knew  it  absolutely — what  then?  As  long  as  it  was  love, 
should  I  accept  it  less  gladly,  do  you  imagine,  because  of 
the  root?  Should  I  think  it  less  a  gift?  should  I  be  less 
grateful,  .  .  or  more  ?  All — I  have  my  '  theory  of  causa- 
tion '  about  it  all— but  we  need  not  dispute,  and  will  not, 
on  any  such  metaphysics.  Your  loving  me  is  enough  to 
satisfy  me — and  if  you  did  it  because  I  sate  rather  on  a 
green  chair  than  a  yellow  one,  it  would  be  enough  still  for 
me : — only  it  would  not,  for  you — because  your  motives  are 
as  worthy  always  as  your  acts. — Dearest! 

So  let  us  talk  of  the  great  conference  in  Mr.  Kenyon's 
carriage,  in  which  joined  himself,  Arabel,  Flush  and  I. 
First  he  said  .  .  '  Did  Browning  stay  much  longer  with 
you?  '  '  Yes — some  time.'  This  was  as  we  were  going  on 
our  way  toward  some  bridge,  whence  to  look  at  the  Bir- 
mingham train.  As  we  came  back,  he  said,  with  an  epical 
leap  in  medias  res  .   .  '  What  an  extraordinary  memory  our 


432  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  17 

friend  Browning  Las.'  'Very  extraordinary' — said  I— ■ 
'  and  how  it  is  raining.'  I  give  you  Arabel's  report  of  my 
reply,  for  I  did  not  myself  exactly  remember  the  full  hap- 
piness of  it — and  she  assured  me  besides  that  he  looked  .  . 
looked  at  me  .  .  as  a  man  may  look  .  .  And  this  was 
everything  spoken  of  you  throughout  the  excursion. 

But  he  spoke  of  me  and  observed  how  well  I  was — on 
which  Arabel  said  'Yes — she  considered  me  quite  well; 
and  that  nothing  was  the  matter  now  but  sham. '  Then  the 
railroads  were  discussed  in  relation  to  me  .  .  and  she 
asked  him—'  Shouldn't  she  try  them  a  little,  before  she 
undertakes  this  great  journey  to  Italy?  '  '  Oh  '  .  .  he  re- 
plied—' she  is  going  on  no  great  journey.'  '  Yes,  she  will, 
perhaps — Ba  is  inclined  to  be  a  great  deal  too  wild,  and 
now  that  she  is  getting  well,  I  do  assure  you,  Mr.  Kenyon.' 

To  sit  upon  thorns,  would  express  rather  a  '  velvet 
cushion '  than  where  I  was  sitting,  while  she  talked  this 
foolishness.  I  have  been  upbraiding  her  since,  very  seri- 
ously ;  and  I  can  only  hope  that  the  words  were  taken  for 
mere  jest— du  bout  cles  Rvres. 

Moreover  Mr.  Kenyon  is  not  going  away  on  Thursday 
— he  has  changed  his  plans :  he  has  put  off  Cambridge  till 
the  '  spring  '■ — he  meets  Miss  Bayley  nowhere — he  holds 
his  police-station  in  London.  '  When  are  you  going '  I 
asked  in  my  despair,  trying  to  look  satisfied.  He  did  not 
know — '  not  directly,  at  any  rate ' — '  I  need  not  hope  to 
get  rid  of  him, '  he  said  aside  perhaps. 

But  we  saw  the  great  roaring,  grinding  Thing  .  .  a 
great  blind  mole,  it  looked  for  blackness.  We  got  out  of 
the  carriage  to  see  closer — and  Flush  was  so  frightened  at 
the  roar  of  it,  that  he  leapt  upon  the  coach-box.  Also  it 
rained, — and  I  had  ever  so  many  raindrops  on  my  gown 
and  in  my  face  even,  .  .  which  pleased  me  nearly  as  much 
as  the  railroad  sight.  It  is  something  new  for  me  to  be 
rained  upon,  you  know. 

As  for  happiness — the  words  which  you  use  so  tenderly 
are  in  my  heart  already,   making  me  happy,  .  .  I  am 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  433 

happy  by  you.  Also  I  may  say  solemnly,  that  the  great- 
est proof  of  love  I  could  give  you,  is  to  be  happy  because 
of  you — and  even  yon  cannot  judge  and  see  how  great  a 
proof  that  is.  You  have  lifted  my  very  soul  up  into  the 
light  of  your  soul,  and  I  am  not  ever  likely  to  mistake  it 
for  the  common  daylight.     May  God  bless  you,  ever  ever 

dearest ! 

I  am  your  own — 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post -mark,  August  17,  1846.] 

No,  my  own  dearest,  your  letter  does  not  arrive  on 
Saturday,  but  this  morning — what  then?  You  will  not  be 
prevented  from  your  usual  ways  of  entire  goodness  to  me 
by  that  ?  You  will  continue  to  write  through  the  remainder 
of  the  writingitime?  This  one  letter  reaches  me, — if  an- 
other was  sent,  it  stays  back  till  to-morrow — so  I  do  get  a 
blessing  by  your  endeavour,  and  am  grateful  as  ever,  my 
own  Ba!  After  all,  neither  of  us  loses, — effectually  loses 
— anything — for  my  letter  always  comes  in  its  good  time, 
— it  is  not  cast  hopelessly  away— and  do  you  suppose  that 
you  lose  any  of  the  gladness  and  thanks?  Rather,  y on  get 
them  doubly — for  all  along,  all  through  the  suspense,  I 
have  been  (invariably)  sure  of  the  deed,  when  promised, 
and  of  the  unchanging  love,  when  only  expected  .  .  so 
that  when  the  letter  finds  me  at  last,  the  joy  being  unac- 
countably unabated  do  you  not  see  that  there  is  a  gain 
somehow?  I  told  you  on  Friday  I  loved  you  more  at  that 
instant  than  at  any  previous  time — I  will  show  you  why, 
because  I  can  show  you,  I  think — though  it  seems  at  first 
an  irrational  word  .  .  for  always  having  loved  you  wholly, 
how  can  I,  still  only  loving  you  wholly,  speak  of  '  more  '  or 
'  less  '  ? — This  is  why — I  used  to  see  you  once  a  week,  to 
sit  with  you  for  an  hour  and  a  half — to  receive  a  letter,  or 
two,  or  three,  during  the  week — and  I  loved  you,  Ba, 
wholly,  as  I  say,  and  reckoned  time  for  no  time  in  the  in- 
Vol.  II.— 28 


434  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  11 

tervals  of  seeing  you  and  hearing  from  you.  Now  I  see 
you  twice  in  the  week,  and  stay  with  you  the  three  hours, 
and  have  letter  on  dear  letter, — and  the  distance  is,  at  least, 
the  same,  between  the  days,  and  between  the  letters — I  will 
only  affirm  it  is  the  same — so  I  must  love  you  more — be- 
cause if  you  were  to  bring  me  back  to  the  old  allowance  of 
you, — the  one  short  visit,  the  two  or  three  letters, — I 
should  be  starved  with  what  once  feasted  me !  (If  you  do 
not  understand  Flush  does !)  Seriously,  does  not  that  go 
to  prove,  I  love  you  more!  Increased  strength  comes 
insensibly  thus, — is  only  ascertained  by  such  process  of 
induction  .  .  once  you  crossed  the  room  to  look  out  Shel- 
ley's age  in  a  book,  and  were  not  tired — now  you  cross 
London  to  see  the  trains  arrive,  and  (I  trust)  are  not  tired 
.  .  So — you  are  stronger. 

Dearest,  I  know  your  very  meaning,  in  what  you  said 
of  religion,  and  responded  to  it  with  my  whole  soul — what 
you  express  now,  is  for  us  both  .  .  those  are  my  own  feel- 
ings, my  convictions  beside — instinct  confirmed  by  reason. 
Look  at  that  injunction  to  '  love  God  with  all  the  heart, 
and  soul,  and  strength' — and  then  imagine  yourself  bid- 
ding any  faculty,  that  arises  towards  the  love  of  him,  be 
still !  If  in  a  meeting  house,  with  the  blank  white  walls, 
and  a  simple  doctrinal  exposition, — all  the  senses  should 
turn  (from  where  they  lie  neglected)  to  all  that  sunshine  in 
the  Sistine  with  its  music  and  painting,  which  would  lift 
them  at  once  to  Heaven, — why  should  you  not  go  forth? 
— to  return  just  as  quickly,  when  they  are  nourished  into 
a  luxuriance  that  extinguishes,  what  is  called,  Reason's 
pale  wavering  light,  lamp  or  whatever  it  is — for  I  have  got 
into  a  confusion  with  thinking  of  our  convolvuluses  that 
climb  and  tangle  round  the  rose-trees — which  might  be 
lamps  or  tapers !  See  tho  levity  !  No — this  sort  of  levity 
only  exists  because  of  the  strong  conviction,  I  do  believe ! 
There  seems  no  longer  need  of  earnestness  in  assertion,  or 
proof  .  .  so  it  runs  lightly  over,  like  foam  on  the  top  of 
a  wave. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  435 

Chorley  came  and  was  very  agreeable  and  communica- 
tive. You  shall  tell  me  more  about  Mr.  Mathews  and  his 
review.  And  with  respect  to  his  lady -friend,  you  will  see 
her,  I  think.  But  first  tell  me  of  Mr.  Kenyon,  and  your- 
self— how  you  are,  and  what  I  am  to  do,  when  to  see  you. 

Now  goodbye,  my  own  Ba— '  goodbye.'  Be  prepared 
for  all  fantasticalness  that  may  happen!  Perhaps  some 
day  I  shall  shake  hands  with  you,  simply,  and  go  .  .  just 
to  remember  the  more  exquisitely  where  I  once  was,  and 
where  you  let  me  stay  now,  you  dearest,  dearest  heart  of 
my  heart,  soul  of  my  soul !  But  the  shaking-hands,  at  a 
very  distant  time!    Now — let  me  kiss  you,  beloved — and 

so  I  do  kiss  you — 

Ever  your  own. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday  Morning. 
[Postmark,  August  17,  1846.] 

Your  sight  of  Widdicombewas  highly  dramatic — and 
the  policeman  '  intersit  nodo  '  as  well  as  any  god  of  them 
all.  What  a  personage  Widdicombe must  be!  Think  of 
the  mental  state  of  a  man,  who  could  gravely  apply  to  his 
own  face  false  moustachios  and  rouge  before  a  looking- 
glass.  There  is  something  in  it  to  wonder  over,  as  over  the 
megalosaurie  and  prodigions  of  ridicules.  Mind — when  I 
talked  of  rouge  improving  a  complexion  for  the  nonce,  I 
was  thinking  of  women;  not  of  men,  in  whom  that  sort  of 
colouring  (even  if  it  were  natural)  is  detestable,  or,  to 
measure  one's  language,  very  ugly  indeed.  I  have  seen  a 
man,  of  whom  it  was  related  that  he  'painted  his  lips- — so 
that  at  dinner,  with  every  course,  was  removed  a  degree  of 
bloom;  the  lips  paled  at  the  soup,  grew  paler  at  the 
mutton,  became  white  at  the  fricandeau  and  ghastly  at  the 
pudding — till  with  the  orange  at  dessert,  his  nearest  neigh- 
bours drew  back  their  chairs  a  little,  expecting  him  to  fall 
flat  in  a  fainting-fit.  But  he  was  very  rich,  and  could  only 
talk  charmingly  out  of  those  painted  lips.     There  were 


436  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  17 

women  who  '  couldn't  conceive  why  people  should  call  him 
a  fool.'  To  eveiy  Bottom's  head  (not  to  wrong  Bottom  by 
such  a  comparison) ,  there  will  be  a  special  Titania — see  if 
there  will  not ! 

So  you  go  on  Wednesday  to  this  club-dinner,  really. 
And  you  come  to  me  also  on  Wednesday.  ,  Does  that  re- 
main decided?  I  have  had  a  letter  from  that  poor  Chiap- 
pino,  to  desire  a  f  last  interview  '  .  .  which  is  promised  to 
be  '  pacific. '  Oh — such  stuff !  Am  I  to  hold  a  handker- 
chief to  my  eyes  and  sob  a  little?  Your  policeman  is 
necessary  to  the  full  development  of  the  drama,  I  think. 
And  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  there  were  two  things  in  which 
I  had  shown  great  want  of  feeling — one,  the  venturing  to 
enclose  your  verses — the  other  .  .  (now  listen !)  the  other 
.  .  the  having  said  that  ' 1  was  sincerely  sorry  for  all  his 
real  troubles. '  Which  I  do  remember  having  said  once, 
when  I  was  out  of  patience — as  how  can  any  one  be  patient 
continually  ?  and  how  was  I  especially  to  condole  with  him 
in  lawn  and  weepers,  on  the  dreadful  fact  of  your  existence 
in  the  world?  Well — he  has  real  troubles  unfortunately, 
and  he  is  going  away  to  live  in  a  village  somewhere.  Poor 
Chiappino !  A  little  occupation  would  be  the  best  thing 
that  could  happen  for  him ;  it  would  be  better  than  pros- 
perity without  it.  When  a  man  spins  evermore  on  his  own 
axis,  like  a  child's  toy  I  saw  the  other  day,  .  .  what  is  the 
use  of  him  but  to  make  a  noise?  No  greater  tormentor  is 
there,  than  self-love,  .  .  even  to  self.  And  no  greater  in- 
stance of  this,  than  this  ! 

Dearest  beloved,  to  turn  away  from  the  whole  world  to 
you  .  .  when  I  do,  do  I  lose  anything  .  .  or  not  rather 
gain  all?  Sometimes  I  feel  to  wish  that  I  had  more  to 
sacrifice  to  you,  so  as  to  prove  something  of  what  is  in  me 
■ — but  you  do  not  require  sacrifice  .  .  it  is  enough,  you 
say,  that  I  should  be  happy  through  you.  How  like  those 
words  are  to  you ! — how  they  are  said  in  your  own  idiom  ! 
And  for  myself,  I  am  contented  to  think  that,  .  .  if  such 
things  can  really  satisfy  you,  .  .  you  would  find  with  diffi- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  437 

culty  elsewhere  in  the  world  than  here,  a  woman  as  per- 
fectly empty  of  life  and  gladness,  except  what  comes  to  her 
from  your  hands.  Many  would  be  happy  through  you : — 
but  to  be  happy  through  only  you,  is  my  advantage  ,  . 
my  boast.     In  this,  I  shall  be  better  than  the  others. 

Why,  if  you  were  to  drive  me  from  you  after  a  little, 
in  what  words  could  I  reproach  you,  but  just  in  these  .  . 
'  You  might  have  left  me  to  die  before. '  Still  I  should  be 
your  debtor,  my  beloved,  as  now  I  am 

Your  very  own 

Ba. 

I  told  you  that  I  was  going  to  the  chapel  one  Sunday 
— but  I  have  not  been  yet.  I  had  not  courage.  May  God 
bless  you ! — 

R.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post  mark,  August  17,  1846.] 

I  come  home  from  Town  for  my  letters  .  .  the  two  I 
ventured  to  expect,  and  here  they  meet  me.  As  I  said, 
you  had  written,  and  I  thanked  you  then,  and  now,  too, 
just  as  if  I  had  been  despairing  all  along — and  over  and 
above,  there  are  some  especial  thanks  to  pay, — for  when  I 
could  not  otherwise  disengage  myself  from  a  dinner  a  little 
way  out  of  town, — having  unawares  confessed  to  the  day's 
being  at  my  disposal,  .  .  I  said — '  I  expect  letters  at  home 
which  must  be  answered ' — and  here  I  am. 

Or  rather,  here  you  are,  dearest, — in,  I  do  think,  your 
dearest  mood.  I  must  shift  my  ground  already,  alter  my 
moment  of  time,  and  avow  that  it  is  now  I  love  you  the 
best,  the  completest.  Do  you  want  to  know  how  much 
kindness  I  can  bear?  If  I  ever  am  so  happy  as  to  speak 
so  as  to  please  you,  it  may  be  only  your  own  kindness 
overflowing  and  running  back  to  you — I  feel  every  day, 
often  in  every  day,  the  regret  follow  some  thought  of  you, 
e- that  this  thought,  for  instance,  if  I  coujcl  secure  and, 


438  THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBERT  BROWNING  [August  17 

properly  tell  you  this  only,  you  would  know  my  love  for 
what  it  is, — and  yet  that  this  thought  will  pass  unexpressed 
like  the  others !  Well,  I  do  not  care — rightly  considered, 
there  is  not  so  much  to  regret — the  words  should  lead  to 
acts,  and  be  felt  insufficient. 

Now  we  collect  then,  from  Mr.  Kenyon's  caution,  or 
discretion,  or  pity,  or  ignorance,  that  he  will  not  inter- 
pose, and  that  there  will  be  one  great  effort,  and  acknow- 
ledgment for  all  ?  I  should  certainly  like  it  so  best.  You 
seem  stronger  than  to  need  the  process  of  preparatory  dis- 
closures, now  to  one,  now  to  another  friend.  It  is  clearly 
best  as  it  is  like  to  be  .  .  for  perhaps  the  chances  are  in 
our  favour  that  the  few  weeks  more  will  be  uninterrupted. 

My  time  is  gone — and  nothing  said !  For  to-morrow,  all 
rests  with  you  .  .  if  the  note  bids  me  go,  I  shall  be  in  ab- 
solute readiness — otherwise  on  Wednesday  .  .  just  as  you 
seem  to  discern  the  times  and  the  seasons. 

Bless  you  my  own  best,  dearest  Ba — your  own  B. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday. 
[Post-mark,  August  18,  1846.] 

For  these  two  dear  letters,  I  thank  you,  dearest !  You 
are  best,  as  ever !  And  that  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you,  almost 
— for  I  have  seen  nobody,  heard  nothing  .  .  except  that 
Eugene  Sue  can  paint,  .  .  which  Miss  Mitford  told  me  this 
morning  in  a  note  of  hers,  .  .  in  which,  besides,  she  com- 
plains of  the  fatigue  she  suffers  from  the  visitors  who  go 
to  see  after  her  the  Beading  prison,  as  the  next  '  sight '  of 
the  neighbourhood.  Better  to  live  in  Cheapside,  than 
among  the  oaks,  on  such  conditions  !  As  to  Mr.  Kenyon, 
he  does  not  approach  me.  So  he  may  come  to-morrow, 
perhaps,  or  even  on  Wednesday.  Would  it  not  appear  the 
top  of  wisdom  if  you  deferred  our  day  to  Thursday's  sun! 
— now  consider !  It  would  be  a  decided  gain,  surely,  to 
be  able  to  say  to  him  on  Wednesday  that  you  had  not  seen 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  439 

me  since  you  and  he  saw  me  together.  So  I  propose 
Thursday  if  you  permit  it.  Next  week  we  may  take  up  our 
two  days  again,  as  one  takes  up  so  many  dropt  silken 
stitches,  .  .  and  we  will  be  careful  that  the  beads  do  not 
run  off  in  the  meantime.  To-day  George  came  from  cir- 
cuit. He  asked,  for  nearly  a  first  question,  whether  I  had 
thought  of  Italy — '  Yes,  I  had  thought  of  it — but  there 
was  time  to  think  more.'  I  am  uneasy  a  little  under 
George's  eyes. 

You  did  not  tell  me  of  Mr.  Chorley  .  .  whether  he  put 
questions  about  the  Continent,  or  observed  on  the  mys- 
teries in  you.  Does  he  go  himself,  and  when?  A  curious 
-  fact '  is,  that  Mrs.  Jameson  was  in  the  next  house  to  us 
this  morning,  and  also  a  few  days  ago;  yet  never  came 
here — the  reason  certainly  being  a  reluctance  to  seem  to 
tread  in  upon  the  recalling  confidence.  I  felt  sorry,  and 
obliged  to  her— both  at  once.  Talking  of  confidences,  I 
neglected  to  tell  you  when  you  were  here  last,  that  one 
more  had  escaped  us.  It  was  not  by  my  choice,  if  by  my 
fault.  I  wrote  something  in  a  note  to  Mr.  Boyd  some 
weeks  ago,  which  nobody  except  himself  would  have 
paused  to  think  over ;  but  he,  like  a  prisoner  in  a  dungeon, 
sounds  every  stone  of  the  walls  round  him,  and  discerns 
a  hollowness,  detects  a  wooden  beam,  .  .  patiently  pricks 
out  the  mortar  with  a  pin — all  this,  in  his  rayless,  com- 
panionless  Dark,— poor  Mr.  Boyd !  The  time  before  I  last 
went  to  see  him,  he  asked  me  if  I  were  going  to  be  a  nun 
— there,  was  the  first  guess !  On  the  next  visit  he  puts  his 
question  precisely  right — /  tried  to  evade — then,  promised 
to  be  frank  in  a  little  time — but  being  pressed  on  all  sides, 
and  drawn  on  by  a  solemn  vow  of  secrecy,  I  allowed  him 
to  see  the  truth — and  he  lives  such  an  isolated  life,  that  it 
is  perfectly  safe  with  him,  setting  the  oath  aside.  Also, 
he  was  very  good  and  kind,  and  approved  highly  of  the 
whole,  and  exhorted  me,  with  ever  such  exhortation,  to 
keep  to  my  purpose,  and  to  allow  no  consideration  in  the 
world  or  out  of  the  world,  to  make  any  difference — quot- 


440  THE  LETTEES  OE  KOBERT  BROWNING  [August  18 

ing  the  moral  philosophers  as  to  the  rights  of  such  ques- 
tions. Is  there  harm  in  his  knowing?  He  knows  nobody, 
talks  to  nobody,  and  is  very  faithful  to  his  word.  Just  as 
I,  you  will  retort,  was  foolish  in  mine !  Yet  I  do  assure 
yoU,  mine  was  a  sort  of  word,  which  to  nine  hundred  and 
ninety  nine  persons,  would  have  suggested  nothing — only 
lie  mused  over  it,  turned  it  into  all  lights,  and  had  nothing 
to  do  but  that.  Afterwards  he  was  proud,  and  asked  .  . 
'  Was  I  not  acute?  '  It  was  a  pleasure  to  him,  one  could 
not  grudge. 

Are  you  well,  ever  dearest?  I  am  well.  And  yester- 
day, while  they  were  at  dinner,  I  walked  out  alone,  or  with 
Flush— twice  to  the  corner  of  the  street,  turning  it,  to  post 
your  letter.  May  God  bless  you.  Surely  we  feel  alike  in 
many,  many  things — the  convolvuluses  grow  together; 
twisted  together — and  you  lift  me  up  from  the  ground; 
you !     I  am  your  very  own — 

Mr.  Mathews  said  nothing  more  than  I  told  you — very 
briefly — but  he  sent  the  review,  he  said — and  it  has  not 
come. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  18,  1846.] 

Let  it  be  on  Thursday  then,  dearest,  for  the  reasons 
you  mention.  I  will  say  nothing  of  my  own  desires  to  meet 
you  sooner  .  .  they  are  corrected  by  the  other  desires  to 
spend  my  whole  life  with  you.  After  all,  these  are  the 
critical  weeks  now  approaching  or  indeed  present — there 
shall  be  no  fault  I  can  avoid.     So,  till  Thursday — 

Chorley  said  very  little  .  .  he  is  all  discreetness  and 
forbearance,  here  as  on  other  points.  He  goes  to  Birming- 
ham at  the  end  of  this  week,  and  returning  after  some  three 
or  four  days,  leaves  London  for  Paris— probably  next  Satur- 
day week.  From  Paris  he  thinks  of  going  to  Holland  .  . 
a  good  step, — and  of  staying  at  Scheven  .  .  ing  .  .  what  is 
the  Bath's  name? — not  a  good  step,  I  told  him,  because  of 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  441 

the  mortal  ugliness  of  the  place — which  I  well  remember  .  . 
it  may  have  improved  in  ten  years,  to  be  sure.  There, 
1  walking  on  the  sands, '  (sands  in  a  heapy  slope,  not  a 
traversable  flat)  he  means  to  '  grow  to  an  end '  with  his 
Tragedy  .  .  there  is  a  noble  ardour  in  his  working  which 
one  cannot  help  admiring — he  has  a  few  weeks'  holiday,  is 
jaded  to  death  with  writing,  and  yet  will  write  away  his 
brief  time  of  respite  and  restoratives — for  what?  He  won- 
dered whether  there  was  any  chance  of  our  meeting  in 
Paris — '  our  '  meaning  him  and  myself. 

As  for  your  communication  to  Mr.  Boyd — how  could 
you  do  otherwise,  my  own  Ba?  I  am  altogether  regard- 
less of  whatever  danger  there  may  be,  in  the  great  delight 
at  his  sympathy  and  approval  of  your  intention:  he  prob- 
ably never  heard  my  name  before  .  .  but  his  own  will  ever 
be  associated  divinely  in  my  memory  with  those  verses 
which  always  have  affected  me  profoundly  .  .  perhaps  on 
the  whole,  more  profoundly  than  any  others  you  ever 
wrote:  that  is  hard  to  prove  to  myself, — but  I  really  think 
so — the  personal  allusions  in  it  went  straight  to  my  heart 
at  the  beginning.  I  remember,  too,  how  he  loved  and 
loves  you  .  .  you  told  me,  Ba :  so  I  am  most  grateful  to 
him, — as  I  ever  shall  feel  to  those  who,  knowing  you, 
judge  me  worthy  of  being  capable  of  knowing  you  and 
taking  your  impress,  and  becoming  yours  sufficiently  for 
your  happiness. 

Are  you  so  well,  dearest,  in  your  walks, — after  your 
rides?  Does  that  rejoice  me  or  no,  when  I  would  rather 
hear  you  had  been  happy,  than  simply  see  you  without 
such  an  assurance?  lam  very  well,  since  you  ask — but 
my  mother  is  not — her  head  being  again  affected.  Yet  the 
late  improvement  gives  ground  for  hope  .  .  nor  is  this  a 
very  violent  attack  in  itself. 

I  suppose  it  was  in  Mrs.  Jameson's  mind,  as  you  ap- 
prehend— you  must  always  be  fond  of  her — (and  such  will 
be  always  my  way  of  rewarding  people  /am  fond  of!) 

God  bless  you,  dearest — I  love  you  all  I  can,  Ba.     I 


442  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  18 

see  another  ship  is  advertised  to  sail— (a  steamer)  for 
Naples,  and  other  southern  ports — but  no  higher.  When 
you  are  well  and  disposed  to  go  to  Greece,  take  me,  my 
love.  I  should  feel  too  happy  for  this  world,  I  think, 
among  the  islands  with  you. 
My  very  own,  I  am  yours— 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post -mark,  August  19,  1846.] 

Your  mother  is  not  well,  dearest?  that  is  bad  news  in- 
deed. And  then,  I  think  of  your  superstition  of  your 
being  ill  and  well  with  her — take  care  and  keep  well,  Robert, 
.  .  or  of  what  use  will  it  be  that  I  should  be  well?  To- 
day we  drove  out,  and  were  as  far  as  Finchley,  and  I  am 
none  the  worse  at  all  for  it.  Do  you  know  Finchley?  It 
is  pretty  and  rural ;  the  ground  rising  and  falling  as  if  with 
the  weight  of  verdure  and  dew !  fields,  and  hedgerows,  and 
long  slopes  of  grass  thick  and  long  enough,  in  its  fresh 
greenness,  quite  to  hide  the  nostrils  of  the  grazing  cows. 
The  fields  are  little,  too,  as  if  the  hedges  wanted  to  get 
together.  Then  the  village  of  Finchley  straggles  along 
the  road  with  a  line  of  cottages,  or  small  houses,  seeming 
to  play  at  a  village.  No  butchers,  no  bakers — only  one 
shop  in  the  place — but  gardens,  and  creepers  round  the 
windows.  Such  a  way  from  London,  it  looked!  Arabel 
wanted  to  call  on  a  friend  of  hers,  a  daughter  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam Russell's,  who  married  an  adopted  son  of  Lamartine, 
and  was  in  the  navy,  and  is  now  an  Independent  minister 
officiating  in  this  selfsame  metropolis  of  Finchley.  A  con- 
catenation, that  is,  altogether.  Very  poor  they  are — living 
on  something  less  than  two  hundred  a  year,  with  five  chil- 
dren, and  the  eldest  five  years  old.  And  the  children  came 
out  to  us,  everybody  else  being  away — so  I,  who  would 
have  stayed  in  the  carriage  under  other  circumstances,  was 
tempted  out  by  the  children  and  the  cottage,   and  they 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARKETT  443 

dragged  us  along  to  see  the  drawing  room,  and  dining 
room,  and  '  Papa's  flowers,'  and  their  own  particular  book 
'  about  the  twenty -seven  tailors  ' ;  and  those  of  the  children 
who  could  speak,  thought  Flush  '  very  cool '  for  walking 
upstairs  without  being  asked.  (The  baby  opened  its  im- 
mense eyes  wider  than  ever,  thinking  unutterable  things.) 
So  as  they  had  been  so  kind  and  hospitable  to  us,  we  could 
not  do  less  (after  a  quantity  of  admiration  upon  the  pretty 
house  covered  with  roses,  and  the  garden  and  lawn,  and 
especially  the  literature  of  those  twenty-seven  tailors)  we 
could  not  do  less  than  offer  to  give  them  a  drive  .  .  which 
was  accepted  with  acclamation.  Think  of  our  taking  into 
the  carriage,  all  five  children,  with  their  prodigious  eyes 
and  cheeks — the  nurse  on  the  coachbox,  to  take  them  home 
at  the  end  of  some  quarter  of  a  mile !  At  the  moment  of 
parting,  Alphonse  Lamartine  thought  seriously  of  making 
a  great  scream — but  upon  Arabel's  perjuring  herself  by  a 
promise  to  '  come  again  soon, '  we  got  away  without  that 
catastrophe.  A  worse  one  is,  that  you  may  think  yourself 
obliged  to  read  this  amusing  history.  To  make  amends, 
I  send  you  what  I  gathered  for  you  in  the  garden. 
'  Pansy  ! — that's  for  thoughts.' ' 

How  wise  we  are  about  Thursday !  or  rather  about 
Tuesday  and  Wednesday,  perhaps. 

As  for  Mr.  Boyd,  he  had  just  heard  your  name,  but  he 
is  blind  and  deaf  to  modern  literature,  and  I  am  not  anx- 
ious that  he  should  know  you  much  by  your  poetry.  He 
asked  some  questions  about  you,  and  he  enquired  of  Arabel 
particularly  whether  she  thought  we  cared  for  each  other 
enough.  But  to  tell  you  the  truth,  his  unqualified  adhe- 
sion strikes  me  as  less  the  result  of  his  love  for  you,  than 
of  his  anger  towards  another.  I  am  sure  he  triumphs  in- 
wardly in  the  idea  of  a  chain  being  broken  which  he  has 
so  often  denounced  in  words  that  pained  and  vexed  me — 
and  then  last  year's  affair  about  Italy  made  him  furious. 
Oh — I  could  see  plainly  by  the  sort  of  smile  he  smiled — > 
1  [The  flower  is  enclosed  with  the  letter.] 


444  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  19 

but  we  need  not  talk  of  it — I  am  at  the  end  too  of  my  time. 
How  good  you  are  to  me  not  to  upbraid  me  for  imprudence 
and  womanly  talkativeness !  You  are  too,  too  good.  And 
you  liked  my  verses  to  Mr.  Boyd !  Which  /  like  to  hear, 
of  course.     Dearest — 

Shall  we  go  to  Greece  then,  Robert?  Let  us,  if  you 
like  it !  When  we  have  used  a  little  the  charm  of  your 
Italy,  and  have  been  in  England  just  to  see  that  everybody 
is  well,  of  yours  and  mine,  .  .  (if  you  like  that!)  .  .  why 
straightway  we  can  go  '  among  the  islands  ' — (and  nearly  as 
pleasant,  it  will  be  for  me,  as  if  I  went  there  alone,  having 
left  you!).  I  should  like  to  see  Athens  with  my  living 
eyes  .  .  Athens  was  in  all  the  dreams  I  dreamed,  before  I 
knew  you.  Why  should  we  not  see  Athens,  and  Egypt 
too,  and  float  down  the  mystical  Nile,  and  stand  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Pyramids?  All  of  it  is  more  possible  now, 
than  walking  up  this  street  seemed  to  me  last  year. 

Indeed,  there  is  only  one  miracle  for  me,  my  beloved, 
— and  that  is  your  loving  me.  Everything  else  under  the 
sun,  and  much  over  it,  seems  the  merest  commonplace  and 
workday  matter-of-fact.  If  I  found  myself,  suddenly,  rid- 
ing in  Paradise,  on  a  white  elephant  of  golden  feet,  .  .  I 
should  shake  the  bridle,  I  fancy,  with  ever  so  much  non- 
chalance, and  absently  wonder  over  '  that  miracle '  of  the 
previous  world.  Because  'That's  for  thoughts,'  as  my 
flower  says !  look  at  it  and  listen. 

As  for  me,  I  am  your  very  own — 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  August  19,  1846.  ] 

See  my  one  piece  of  available  paper  for  the  minute! 
Ought  I  to  write  on  or  wait?  No,  I  will  tell  Ba  at  once 
how  I  love  her  for  giving  me  this  one  more  letter  with  its 
delights.  '  Finchley  ' — I  know  very  well — not  that  I  ever 
saw  the  streets,  and  palaces,  and  cathedral,  with  these 
eyes  .  .  but  in  '  Quarles'  Emblems,'  my  childhood's  pet 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  445 

book,  I  well  remember  that  an  aspiring  Soul, — (a  squat 
little  woman-figure  with  a  loose  gown,  hair  in  a  coil,  and 
bare  feet — )  is  seated  on  the  world,  a  '  terrestrial  ball,' — 
which,  that  you  may  clearly  perceive  it  to  be  our  world,  is 
somewhat  parsimoniously  scattered  over  with  cities  and 
towns — and  one,  the  evident  capital  of  the  universe  and 
Babylon's  despair  for  size, — occupying  as  it  does  a  tract 
quite  equal  to  all  Europe's  due  share  on  the  hemisphere, 


is  marked  '  Finchley  ' — Do         fM^Jt       you  recognize? 

Yet,  if  you  will  have  it  only  the  pretty  village  with  the 
fields  you  describe  so  perfectly,  I  accept  the  sweetness  and 
give  up  the  glory,  and  your  Finchley  is  mine  for  ever,  you 
dearest — whom  I  see  in  the  house,  and  in  the  carriage  .  . 
but  how  is  it  you  escaped  the  rain,  Ba?  Oh,  it  did  not 
rain  till  later,  now  I  think  a  little.  Those  are  indeed 
strange  circumstances  .  .  and  the  '  independent  ministry  ' 
at  the  end,  seems  hard  to  account  for  .  .  or,  why  hard? 
Well,  this  is  not  hard  to  feel  and  know,  that  it  is  perfect 
joy  to  hear  you  propose  such  travels  and  adventures — 
Greece  with  you,  Egypt  with  you  I  Will  you  please  and  tell 
me  .  .  (not  now,  but  whenever  your  conscience  prompts 
you  on  the  recurrence  of  that  notable  objection,  if  Miss 
Campbell's  desirableness  is  to  recur)  .  .  what  other  woman 
in  the  whole  world  and  Finchley,  would  propose  to  go  to 
Egypt  instead  of  Belgravia?  Do  our  tastes  coincide  or 
no?  This  is  putting  all  on  the  lowest  possible  ground  .  . 
setting  love  aside  even,  to  Miss  Mitford's  heart's  fullest 
content ;  if  I  were  to  choose  among  women,  without  love  to 
give  or  take,  and  only  for  other  advantages,  do  you  think 
any  advantage  would  compete  with  this  single  one, — '  she 
will  feel  happy  in  traveling  with  you  to  a  distance.'  Love 
alters  the  scale,  overbalances  everything — at  the  beginning 
I  fancied  you  could  not  leave  England,  you  know.  But  it 
singularly  affects  my  imagination,  such  a  life  with  you, — 
led  for  the  world,  I  hope,  all  the  more  effectually  for  being 


446  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  19 

not  led  in  the  world.  If  their  ways  are  not  to  be  ours,  all 
is  better  at  a  distance,  and  so  I  have  put  this  down  as, 
surely,  one  palpable,  unmistakable  advantage  even  you 
must  confess  I  shall  gain  in  marrying  you —  (I  may  only 
love  Ba's  eyes  and  mouth  in  a  sort  of  fearful  secrecy  so 
far  as  words  go  .  .  she  stops  all  speech  on  that  subject !) 

Yes  indeed,  Ba,  I  always  felt  that  '  Cyprus  wine  '  poem 
fill  my  heart  with  unutterable  desires  to  you.  There  is  so 
much  of  you  in  it.  Observe,  I  do  no  foolish  injustice  in 
criticisms  .  .  I  quite  understand  a  charm  beside  the  charm 
the  world  can  see.  Some  (5f  your  pansies  are  entirely 
beautiful  in  themselves  .  .  I  can  set  them  before  the  visi- 
tors of  a  flower-show  and  bid  all  pronounce  on  them — 
others,  beside  their  beauty,  come  to  me  as  this  dear  one, 
in  a  letter,  with  a  story  of  the  plucking,  with  a  sense  of  the 
fingers  that  held  it.  Bless  you,  ever  dearest,  dear  beyond 
words, — you  have  given  me  already  in  this  year  and  a  half 
the  entirest  faith  and  purest  kindness  my  heart  can  compre- 
hend. Do  lovers  '  abuse  the  beloved  object ' — '  try  to 
shake  off  their  chains '  &c.  &c.  ?  Mine  is  not  love  then ! 
Not  one  minute  or  moment  of  your  life  with  me  could  have 
been  other  than  it  was  without  seeming  less  dear,  less  per- 
fect in  my  memory — and  for  all,  God  reward  you. 

To-morrow,  Thursday !  And  to-night  1  will  warily 
speak  of  not  having  seen  you. 

Your  own.       » 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  August  21,  1846.] 

Dearest,  this  is  to  be  a  brief  letter,  though  my  heart 
shall  find  room  in  whatever  goes  to  you.  Yesterday  cost 
us  nothing — no  observation  was  made:  we  were  in  all 
security  notwithstanding  the  forebodings  on  either  side. 
May  they  find  such  an  end  in  circumstances  of  still  more 
consequence.  Dearest,  your  flowers  are  beautiful  beyond 
their  beauty  of  yesterday  which  I  praised — they  think 
themselves  still  in  the  garden ;   we  have  done  them  no  sort 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  447 

of  wrong.  What  a  luring  thought  you  leave  with  me  in  the 
flowers !  How  I  look  at  them  as  a  sign  of  you,  left  behind 
— your  footstep  in  the  ground !  It  has  been  so  from  the 
beginning.  And  yet  sometimes  you  try  to  prove  that  you 
are  not  always  good.     You ! 

If  you  are  not  good,  it  is  because  you  are  best.  I  will 
admit  so  much. 

Oh,  to  look  back!  It  is  so  wonderful  to  me  to  look 
back  on  my  life  and  my  old  philosophy  of  life,  made  of  the 
necessities  of  sorrow  and  the  resolution  to  attain  to  some- 
thing better  than  a  perpetual  moaning  and  complaint, — to 
that  state  of  neutralized  emotion  to  which  I  did  attain — 
that  serenity  which  meant  the  failure  of  hope !  Can  I  look 
back  to  such  things,  and  not  thank  you  next  to  God?  For 
you,  who  had  the  power,  to  stoop  to  having  the  will, — is  it 
not  worthy  of  thanks?  So  I  thank  you  and  love  you  and 
shall  always,  however  it  may  be  hereafter.  I  could  not 
feel  otherwise  to  you,  I  think,  than  by  my  feeling  at  this 
moment. 

How  Papa  has  startled  me.  He  came  in  while  I  was 
writing  .  .  (I  shut  the  writing-case  as  he  walked  over  the 
floor — )  and  then,  after  the  usual  talk  of  the  weather,  and 
how  the  nights  '  were  growing  cold, '  ...  he  said  sud- 
denly .  .  looking  to  the  table  .  .  '  What  a  beautiful  col- 
our those  little  blue  flowers  have — '  Calling  them  just  so, 
.  .  '  little  blue  flowers. '  I  could  scarcely  answer  I  was  so 
frightened — but  he  observed  nothing  and  turned  and  left 
the  room  with  his  favourite  enquiry  pour  rire,  as  to  whether 
he  '  could  do  anything  for  me  in  the  City.' 

Do  anything  for  me  in  the  City !  Well — do  you  do 
something  for  me,  by  thinking  of  me  and  loving  me,  Rob- 
ert. Dear  you  are,  never  to  be  tired  of  me,  with  so  much 
reason  for  it  as  I  know.  May  God  bless  you,  very  dear ! 
— and  ever  dearest !  I  am  your  own  too  entirely  to  need 
to  say  so. 

Ea. 


448  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  21 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  August  21,  1846.] 

I  think — now  that  the  week  is  over  with  its  opportuni- 
ties,— and  now  that  no  selfish  complaining  can  take  ad- 
vantage of  your  goodness, — that  I  will  ask  you  how  /feel, 
do  you  suppose,  without  my  proper  quantity  of  '  mor- 
phine '?     May  I  call  you  my  morphine? 

And  speaking  of  '  proper  quantities  ' — there  were  some 
remarks  of  yours  which  I  altogether  acquiesced  in,  yester- 
day, about  a  humiliating  dependence  in  money-matters; 
though  I  should  be  the  first  to  except  myself  from  feeling 
quite  with  the  world  there — I  have  told  you,  indeed, — but 
my  case  is  not  everybody's.  I  hate  being  master,  and 
alone,  and  absolute  disposer  in  points  where  real  love  will 
save  me  the  trouble  .  .  because  there  are  infinitely  more 
and  greater  points  where  the  solitary  action  and  will,  with 
their  responsibility,  cannot  be  avoided.  I  suppose  that  is 
Goethe's  meaning  when  he  says  every  man  has  liberty 
enough — political  liberty  and  social :  so  that  when  they  let 
him  write  '  Faust '  after  his  own  fashion,  he  does  not  mind 
how  they  dispose  of  his  money,  or  even  limit  his  own  foot- 
steps. Ah, — but  there  are  the  good  thousands  all  round 
who  don't  want  to  write  '  Fausts, '  and  only  have  money  to 
spend  and  walks  to  take,  and  how  do  they  like  such  an 
arrangement?  Moreover,  I  should  be  perhaps  more  refrac- 
tory than  anybody,  if  what  I  cheerfully  agree  to,  as  hap- 
pening to  take  my  fancy,  were  forced  on  me,  as  the  only 
reasonable  course.  All  men  ought  to  be  independent, 
whatever  Carlyle  may  say.  And  so,  too,  I  like  being 
alone,  myself — but  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  the  ordinary 
friends  I  have,  live  alone.  Do  you  understand  all  this, 
Ba?  Will  you  make  me  say  it,  in  your  mind,  intelligibly? 
And  then  will  you  say  still  more  of  your  own  till  the  true 
thing  is  completely  said?  And,  after  all,  will  you  kiss 
me? 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  441) 

As  I  asked  you  yesterday  .  .  because  of  a  most  fool- 
ish, thoughtless  allusion, — which  I  only  trust  you  never 
noticed  .  .  do  not  you  allude  to  it,  not  even  to  forgive  me, 
dearest,  dearest.  I  would  rather  be  unforgiven  than  pain 
you  afresh  to  do  it  .  .  but  perhaps  you  did  not  notice  my 
silly  expression  after  all  .  .  I  wished  your  dear  hands  be- 
fore my  eyes,  I  know !  Still  you  would  know  it  was  only 
thoughtlessness . 

All  this  sad  morning  the  blackness  has  been  quite 
enough  to  justify  our  fire  .  .  we  have  had  one  there  two 
or  three  days.  But  now  the  sun  comes  out — and  I  will 
hope  you  follow  him, — after  Mr.  Kenyon's  visit?  That  is 
to  be,  I  think ! 

I  never  write  anything  bearable,  even  for  me,  on  these 
days  when  no  letter  from  you  leads  me  on  phrase  by  phrase 
.  .  I  am  thrown  too  completely  on  the  general  feelings — 
■  Do  you  love  Ba? — then  tell  her  that!'  Yes,  indeed!  It 
is  easier  to  leave  all  the  love  untold,  having  to  speak  for 
the  moment  of  Finchley  only  !  Finchley, — the  cottage, — 
Ba  entering  it — Flush  following  her  .  .  now  I  come  to 
something  I  wanted  to  say  !  In  the  paper,  this  morning, 
is  a  paragraph  about  the  bold  villainy  of  dog-stealers. 
There  is  an  '  organised  society  '  of  these  fellows,  and  they 
seize  and  convey  away  everybody's  Flushes,  '  if  such  a  one 
ever  were, '  as  Iago  rhymes  of  his  perfect  wife.  So  friend 
Flush  must  go  his  high  ways  only,  and  keep  out  of  alleys 
and  dark  corners :  beside  in  Pisa,  he  must  guard  the  house. 
In  earnest,  I  warn  you,  Ba ! 

Now  tell  me — will  there  be  any  impediment  to  Tuesday  ? 

I  think  I  will  go  out  into  this  sunshine  while  it  lasts. 
I  am  very  well  considering  there  are  three  days  to  wait, 
but  a  walk  will  do  no  harm,' — nor  will  I. 

All  speech  to  you  shall  be  ever  simple,  simplest.  I 
can  only  love  you  and  say  so, — and  I  do  love  you,  best 
beloved ! 

Your  own,  very  own. 

Vol.  II.— 29 


450  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  22 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  August  22,  1846.] 

Can  I  be  as  good  for  you  as  morphine  is  for  me,  I  won- 
der .  .  even  at  the  cost  of  being  as  bad  also?  Can't  you 
leave  me  off  without  risking  your  life, — nor  go  on  with  me 
without  running  the  hazards  of  all  poison.  Ah ! — it  will 
not  do,  so.  The  figure  exceeds  me,  let  it  be  ever  so  fatal. 
I  may  not  be  your  morphine,  even  if  I  shall  be  your  Ba ! — 
you  see! 

You  are  my  prophet  though,  in  a  few  things.  For  in- 
stance, Mr.  Kenyon  came  to-day,  and  sate  here  I  really 
believe  two  hours,  talking  of  poor  Papa  .  .  (oh !  not  of 
us,  my  prophet!)  and  at  length,  of  the  Pyrenees  and  of 
Switzerland,  and  of  the  characteristics  of  mountain  scen- 
ery— full  of  interest  it  all  was,  and  I  thought  (while  he 
talked)  that  when  you  and  I  had  done  with  the  crocodiles, 
we  might  look  for  a  chamois  or  two.  If  I  '  drive, '  I  shall 
drive  that  way,  I  think  still  .  .  that  is,  ever  since  four 
o'clock,  I  have  thought.  Mr.  Kenyon  said  .  .  'You  had  a 
visitor  yesterday  ! '  '  Yes  '  said  I — '  Mr.  Browning  came.' 
'  You  mean  that  he  actually  did  come,  through  that  pouring 
rain !  Well — he  told  me  he  was  coming :  but  when  I  saw 
the  rain,  I  imagined  it  to  be  out  of  the  question.'  Just 
observe  his  subtlety.  Imagining  that  you  did  not  come 
yesterday  he  concluded  of  course  that  you  would  come  to- 
day,— and  straightway  hurried  here  himself!  Moreover 
he  seems  to  me  to  have  resolved  on  never  again  leaving 
London !  Because  Mr.  Eagles  goes  to  the  seaside  instead 
of  to  the  Quantock  hills,  Mr.  Kenyon  has  written  to  Lan- 
dor  a  proposition  toward  a  general  renouncement  of  the 
adventure.  Quite  cross  I  felt,  to  hear  of  it !  And  it  doesn't 
unruffle  me  to  be  told,  even  that  he  goes  to  Bichmond  on 
Tuesday  and  sleeps  there  and  spends  the  Wednesday. 
Nothing  can  unruffle  me.  So  tiresome  it  is !  Then  I  am 
provoked  a  little  by  the  news  he  brought  me  of  '  Miss 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  451 

Martineau's  leaving  the  Lakes  for  a  month  or  two ' — see- 
ing that  if  she  leaves  the  Lakes,  it  is  for  London — there 
are  nets  on  all  sides  of  ns.  I  am  under  a  promise  to  see 
her,  and  I  shrink  both  from  herself  and  her  consequences. 
Now,  is  it  not  tiresome?  Those  are  coming,  and  these  are 
not  going  away.  The  hunters  are  upon  us  .  .  and  where 
we  run,  we  run  into  the  nets. 

Dearest,  I  have  been  considering  one  thing,  and  do  you 
consider  whether,  if  we  do  achieve  this  peculiar  madness 
of  going  to  Italy,  we  should  take  any  books,  and  what  they 
should  be.  A  few  books  of  the  small  editions  would  be 
desirable  perhaps — and  then  it  were  well  for  us  to  arrange 
it  so  that  we  should  not  take  duplicates,  and  that  the  pos- 
session of  the  duodecimo  should  '  have  the  preference  '  .  . 
do  you  understand?  Also,  this  arrangement  being  made, 
and  the  time  approaching,  I  had  better  perhaps  send  you 
my  part  of  the  books,  so  as  to  save  the  difficulty  of  taking 
more  packets  than  absolutely  were  necessary,  from  this 
house.  It  will  be  very  difficult  to  remove  things  without 
exciting  observation — and  my  sisters  must  not  observe.  The 
consequences  would  be  frightful  if  they  were  suspected  of 
knowing;  and,  poor  things,  I  could  not  drive  them  into 
acting  a  part. 

My  own  beloved,  when  my  courage  seems  to  bend  and 
break,  I  turn  to  you  and  look  at  you  .  .  as  men  see  vi- 
sions !  It  is  enough,  always.  Did  you  ever  give  me  pain 
by  a  purpose  of  yours? — do  you  not  rather  keep  me  from 
all  pain? — do  we  blame  the  wind  that  breathes  gently,  be- 
cause a  reed  or  a  weed  trembles  in  it?  I  could  not  feel 
much  pain  while  sitting  near  you,  I  think — unless  you 
suffered  a  little,  .  .  or  looked  as  if  you  did  not  love  me. 
And  that  was  not  at  least  yesterday. 

May  God  bless  you  dearest,  ever  dearest. 

I  am  your  own. 

Say  how  your  mother  is — and  how  you  are.  Don't 
neglect  this. 


452  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  22 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  August  22,  1846.] 

Your  first  note  readied  me  at  six  o'clock  yesterday  .  . 
did  the  dear  living  spirit  inside  help  it  along  in  spite  of 
all  the  post's  hindrances?  And  this  second  comes  duly. 
When  you  know  I  am  most  at  a  loss  how  to  thank  you, 
invariably  you  begin  thanking  me!  Is  that  because  of  my 
own  practice  of  saying  a  foolish  thing  and  then,  to  cover 
it,  asking  you  to  kiss  me?  I  think  I  will  tell  you  now 
what  that  foolish  thing  was, — lest  you,  missing  it,  should 
go  hunting  and  find  worse,  and  far  worse.  I  will  just  re- 
mind you,  that  on  your  enumerating  jour  brothers  and 
sisters,  I  said  without  a  moment's  thought  '  so,  you  are 
seven '  /  .  .  And  you  know  how  Wordsworth  applied  that 
phrase  .  .  and  in  the  sudden  fear  of  wounding  dearest  Ba, 
I  took  such  refuge  for  myself,  rather  than  her !  Will  you 
kiss  me  now,  my  own  love?  And  say  nothing,  but  let  it 
die  away  here,  this  stupidity  of  mine. 

I  hardly  conceive  what  Mr.  Kenyon  means  .  .  except 
perhaps  a  sort  of  general  exhortation  to  take  care,  and — I 
mean,  if  he  came  for  the  purpose  of  catching  me  only, — he 
ought  either  to  know  or  not  know,  keep  silence  or  speak, 
approve  or  condemn  .  .  and  to  do  neither  being  so  easy, 
his  own  cautiousness  would  keep  him  away,  I  should  have 
thought. 

About  your  books,  you  speak  altogether  wisely  :  in  this 
first  visit  to  Italy  we  had  better  take  only  enough  to  live 
upon, — travelling  books, — and  return  for  the  rest.  And 
so  with  everything  else.  I  shall  put  papers  &c.  into  a 
room  and  turn  the  key  on  them  and  my  death's  heads — 
because  when  we  come  back  (think  of  you  and  me  .  . 
why,  we  shall  walk  arm  in  arm, — would  Flush  object  to 
carry  an  umbrella  in  his  mouth?  And  so  let  Lough  cut 
us  in  marble,  all  three!) — well,  when  we  come  back,  all  can 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  453 

be  done  leisurely  and  considerately.  And  then,  Greece, 
Egypt,  Syria,  the  Chamois-country,  as  Ba  pleases ! 

Ba,  Lord  Byron  is  altogether  in  my  affection  again  .  . 
I  have  read  on  to  the  end,  and  am  quite  sure  of  the  great 
qualities  which  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years  had  partially 
obscured.  Only  a  little  longer  life  and  all  would  have 
been  gloriously  right  again.  I  read  this  book  of  Moore's 
too  long  ago :  but  I  always  retained  my  first  feeling  for 
Byron  in  many  respects  .  .  the  interest  in  the  places  he 
had  visited,  in  relics  of  him.  I  would  at  any  time  have 
gone  to  Finchley  to  see  a  curl  of  his  hair  or  one  of  his 
gloves,  I  am  sure — while  Heaven  knows  that  I  could  not 
get  up  enthusiasm  enough  to  cross  the  room  if  at  the  other 
end  of  it  all  Wordsworth,  Coleridge  and  Southey  were  con- 
densed into  the  little  China  bottle  yonder,  after  the  Rosi- 
crucian  fashion  .  .  they  seem  to  '  have  their  reward '  and 
want  nobody's  love  or  faith.  Just  one  of  those  trenchant 
opinions  which  I  found  fault  with  Byron  for  uttering, — as 
'  proving  nothing  ' !  But  telling  a  weakness  to  Ba  is  not 
telling  it  to  '  the  world, '  as  poor  authors  phrase  it ! 

By  the  way,  Chorley  has  written  another  very  kind 
paper,  in  that  little  journal  of  to-day,  '  Colombe's  Birth- 
day ' — I  have  only  glanced  at  it  however.  See  his  good- 
will :  I  will  bring  it  on  Tuesday,  if  you  please  in  goodness. 
I  was  not  quite  so  well  .  .  (there  is  the  bare  truth  .  .)  this 
morning  early — but  the  little  there  was  to  go,  has  gone, 
and  I  am  about  to  go  out.  My  mother  continues  indis- 
posed. The  connection  between  our  ailings  is  no  fanciful 
one.  A  few  weeks  ago  when  my  medical  adviser  was 
speaking  about  the  pain  and  its  cause  .  .  my  mother  sit- 
ting by  me  .  .  he  exclaimed  '  Why,  has  anybody  to  search 
far  for  a  cause  of  whatever  nervous  disorder  you  may  suffer 
from,  when  there  sits  your  mother  .  .  whom  you  so  abso- 
lutely resemble  .  .  I  can  trace  every  feature  &c.  &c. '  To 
which  I  did  not  answer,  '  And  will  anybody  wonder  that 
the  said  disorder  flies  away,  when  there  sits  my  Ba,  whom 
I  so  thoroughly  adore.' 


454  THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  22 

Yes,  there  you  sit,  Ba! 

And  here  I  kiss  you,  best  beloved, — my  very  own  as  I 
am  your  own — 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  August  22,  1846.] 

I  begin  to  write  before  one  this  morning,  with  the  high 
resolve  that  you  shall  have  a  letter  on  Sunday,  to-morrow, 
at  least,  — it  shall  be  put  into  the  post  so  precisely  at  the 
right  hour.  At  two  I  am  going  out  in  the  carriage  to  Mr. 
Boyd's  and  other  places, — and  dining  duties  are  to  be  per- 
formed before  then,  and  before  now  I  have  had  a  visitor. 
Guess  whom — Mrs.  Jameson.  So  I  am  on  a  '  narrow  neck 
of  land '  .  .  such  as  Wesley  wrote  hymns  about ;  .  and 
stems  in  pede  uno  on  it — can  make  for  you  but  a  hurried 
letter. 

She  came  in  with  a  questioning  face,  and  after  wonder- 
ing to  find  me  visible  so  soon,  plunged  into  the  centre  of 
the  question  and  asked  '  what  was  settled  .  .  what  I  was 
doing  about  Italy. — '  'Just  nothing,'  I  told  her.  'She 
found  me  as  she  left  me,  able  to  say  no  word. ' 

'  But  what  are  you  going  to  do — '  throwing  herself  back 
in  the  chair  with  a  sudden- — '  but  oh,  I  must  not  enquire. ' 

I  went  on  to  say  that  '  in  the  first  place  my  going  would 
not  take  place  till  quite  the  end  of  September  if  so  soon, — 
that  I  had  determined  to  make  no  premature  fuss, — and 
that,  for  the  actual  present,  nothing  was  either  to  be  done 
or  said. 

'  Very  sudden  then,  it  is  to  be.  In  fact,  there  is  only 
an  elopement  for  3rou — '  she  observed  laughing. 

So  I  was  obliged  to  laugh. 

(But,  dearest,  nobody  will  use  such  a  word  surely  to 
the  event.  We  shall  be  in  such  an  obvious  exercise  of 
Right  by  Daylight — surely  nobody  will  use  such  a  word.) 

I  talked  of  Mr.  Kenyon, — how  he  had  been  with  me 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BABBETT  455 

yesterday  and  brought  the  mountains  of  the  Earth  into  my 
room — '  which  was  almost  too  much, '  I  said,  '  for  a  pris- 
oner.'    '  Yes — but  if  you  go  to  Italy.  .' 

'  But  Mr.  Kenyon  thinks  I  shall  not.  In  his  opinion, 
my  case  is  desperate. ' 

'  But  I  tell  you  that  it  is  not.  Nobody's  case  is  des- 
perate when  the  will  is  not  at  fault.  And  a  woman's  will 
when  she  wills  thoroughly  as  I  hope  you  do,  is  strong 
enough  to  overcome.  When  I  hear  people  say  that  cir- 
cumstances are  against  them,  I  always  retort,  .  .  you  mean 
that  your  will  is  not  with  you !  I  believe  in  the  will — I  have 
faith  in  it. ' 

There  is  an  oracle  for  us,  to  remember  for  good !  She 
goes  to  Paris,  she  says,  with  her  niece,  between  the  sev- 
enth and  tenth  of  September, — and  after  a  few  days  at 
Paris  she  goes  to  Orleans  for  the  cathedral's  sake — but 
what  follows  is  doubtful  .  .  Italy  is  doubtful.  Only  that 
my  opinion  is,  as  I  told  her,  that  if  Italy  is  doubtful  here 
in  London,  at  Orleans,  when  she  gets  there,  it  will  be  cer- 
tain. She  will  not  resist  the  attraction  towards  the  South. 
She  looked  at  me  all  the  while  she  told  me  this  .  .  looked 
into  my  eyes,  like  a  Diviner. 

On  Monday  morning  she  comes  to  see  me  again.  It  is 
all  painful,  or  rather  unpleasant.  One  should  not  use 
strong  words  out  of  place,  and  there  will  remain  too  much 
use  for  this.     How  I  teaze  you  now ! 

Believe  me,  through  it  all,  that  when  I  think  of  the 
very  worst  of  the  future,  I  love  you  the  best,  and  feel  most 
certain  of  never  hesitating.  As  long  as  you  choose  to  have 
me,  my  beloved,  I  have  chosen — I  am  yours  already — 

and  your  own  always — 

Ba 


456  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  24 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  24,  1846.] 

But  dearest — Did  you  not  understand  that  I  under- 
stood? I  know  your  words  better  than  you  think,  you 
see.  Were  you  afraid  to  trust  me  to  give  a  chase  to  them 
in  my  recollection,  lest  I  should  fall  blindly  upon  some 
'  Secret  Sin  '  of  yours?  a  wild  boar,  instead  of  a  poor  little 
coney  belonging  to  the  rocks  of  my  desolation? — such  as  it 
was  before  you  made  the  yellow  furze  grow  everywhere  on 
it?  Now,  it  is  like  me  for  wickedness,  to  begin  talking  of 
your  'Secret  Sins,'  just  by  this  opportunity.  You  over- 
come me  with  goodness — there's  the  real  truth,  and  the 
whole  of  it. 

While  I  am  writing,  comes  in  Arabel  with  such  a  face. 
My  brother  had  been  talking,  talking  of  me.  Stormie 
suddenly  touched  her  and  said — '  Is  it  true  that  there  is 
an  engagement  between  Mr.  Browning  and  Ba — '?  She 
was  taken  unaware,  but  had  just  power  to  say  '  You  had 
better  ask  them,  if  you  want  to  know.  What  nonsense, 
Storm.'  '  Well,'  he  resumed,  '  I'll  ask  Ba  when  I  go  up- 
stairs. '  George  was  by,  looking  as  grave  as  if  antedating 
his  judgeship.  Think  how  frightened  I  was,  Robert  .  . 
expecting  them  upstairs  every  minute, — for  all  my  brothers 
come  here  on  Sunday,  all  together.  But  they  came,  and 
not  a  single  word  was  said — not  on  that  subject,  and  I 
talked  on  every  other  in  a  sort  of  hurried  way — I  was  so 
frightened. 

Saturday  Mr.  Boyd  and  I  talked  on  it  for  two  hours 
nearly,  he  would  not  let  me  go  with  his  kindness.  Noth- 
ing, he  said,  would  make  him  gladder  than  our  having 
gone,  and  escaped  the  storms.  In  fact,  what  with  affec- 
tion for  me,  and  disaffection  in  other  directions,  he  thinks 
of  nothing  besides,  I  do  believe.  He  only  wishes  that  he 
had  known  last  year,  in  order  to  exhort  me  properly.     The 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  457 

very  triumph  of  reason  and  righteousness,  he  considers  the 
whole  affair.  But  I  told  you  what  Mr.  Boyd  is — dear, 
poor  Mr.  Boyd!  Talking  such  pure  childishness  some- 
times, in  such  pure  Attic — yet  one  of  the  very  most  up- 
right men,  after  all,  that  I  ever  dreamt  of — one  of  the  men 
born  shepherds — with  a  crook  in  the  hand,  instead  of  the 
metaphorical  '  silver  spoon  in  the  mouth. '  Good,  dear 
Mr.  Boyd, — I  am  very  grateful  to  him  for  his  goodness  to 
me  just  now.  I  assure  you  that  he  takes  us  up  exactly  as 
if  we  were  Ossian  and  Macpherson,  or  a  criticism  of  Por- 
son's,  or  a  new  chapter  of  Bentley  on  Phalaris.  By  the 
way,  do  you  believe  in  Ossian?  Let  me  be  properly  pre- 
pared for  that  question. 

But  I  have  a  question  for  you  of  my  own.  Listen  to 
me,  my  Famous  in  Council,  and  give  me  back  words  of 
wisdom.  A  long,  long  while  ago,  nearly  a  year  since  per- 
haps, I  wrote  to  the  Blackwoods  of  Edinburgh  to  mention 
my  new  '  Prometheus,'  and  to  ask  if  they  would  care  to 
use  it  in  their  magazine,  that,  and  verses  more  my  own; 
whether  they  would  care  to  have  them  at  the  usual  maga- 
zine terms — I  had  some  lyrics  by  me,  and  people  have 
constantly  advised  me  to  print  in  Blackwood,  with  the 
prospect  of  republishing  in  the  independent  form.  You 
get  at  the  public  so,  and  are  paid  for  your  poems  instead 
of  paying  for  them.  Did  I  tell  you  all  this  before — and 
about  my  having  written  the  enquiry?  At  any  rate,  no 
reply  came — I  concluded  that  Mr.  Blackwood  did  not 
think  it  worth  while  to  write,  and  eschewed  the  poems — 
and  the  subject  passed  from  my  thoughts  till  last  night. 
Then  came  a  very  civil  note.  The  authorities  receiving 
nothing  from  me,  were  afraid  that  their  answer  to  my  let- 
ter had  not  reached  me,  and  therefore  wrote  again.  They 
would  '  like  to  see  '  my  '  Prometheus  '  though  apprehen- 
sive of  its  being  unfit  for  the  Magazine — but  particularly 
desire  to  have  all  manner  of  lyrics,  whatever  I  have  by  me. 
Now,  what  do  you  think?  What  shall  I  do?  Would  it 
not  be  well  to  let  this  door  between  us  and  Blackwood 


458  THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  24 

stand  open.  One  is  not  in  the  worst  company  there — they 
pay  well, — and  you  have  the  opportunity  of  standing  face 
to  face  with  the  public  at  any  moment — without  hindering 
the  solemner  interviews.  When  we  are  in  Italy,  particu- 
larly .  . !     Do  you  see?     Tell  me  your  thoughts. 

Since  I  began  this  letter,  I  have  been  to  the  Scotch 
Church  in  our  neighbourhood — and  it  has  all  been  in  vain 
— I  could  not  stay.  We  heard  that  a  French  minister,  a 
M.  Alphonse  Monod  of  Montauban,  was  to  preach  at  three 
o'clock,  in  French — and  counting  on  a  small  congregation, 
and  Arabel  (through  a  knowledge  of  the  localities)  encour- 
aging me  with  the  prospect  of  sitting  close  to  the  door,  and 
retiring  back  into  the  entrance-hall  when  the  singing  began, 
so  as  to  escape  that  excitement — I  agreed  to  make  the  trial, 
and  she  and  I  set  out  in  a  cab  from  the  cab-stand  hard  by 
.  .  to  which  we  walked.  But  the  church  was  filling,  obvi- 
ously filling,  as  we  arrived  .  .  and  grew  fuller  and  fuller. 
We  went  in  and  came  out  again,  and  I  sate  down  on  the 
stairs — and  the  people  came  faster  and  faster,  and  I  could 
not  keep  the  tears  out  of  my  eyes  to  begin  with.  One  gets 
nervous  among  all  these  people  if  a  straw  stirs.  So  Arabel 
after  due  observations  on  every  side,  decided  that  it  would 
be  too  much  of  a  congregation  for  me,  and  that  I  had  bet- 
ter go  home  to  Flush— (poor  Flush  having  been  left  at 
home  in  a  state  of  absolute  despair) .  She  therefore  put 
me  into  a  cab  and  sent  me  to  Wimpole  Street,  and  stayed 
behind  herself  to  hear  M.  Monod — there's  my  adventure 
to-day.  When  I  opened  my  door  on  my  return,  Flush 
threw  himself  upon  me  with  a  most  ecstatical  agony,  and 
for  full  ten  minutes  did  not  cease  jumping  and  kissing  my 
hands — he  thought  he  had  lost  me  for  certain,  this  time. 
Oh !  and  you  warn  me  against  the  danger  of  losing  Mm. 
Indeed  I  take  care  and  take  thought  too — those  e  organised 
banditti '  are  not  merely  banditti  de  comedie — they  are  a 
dreadful  reality.*  Did  I  not  tell  you  once  that  they  had 
announced  to  me  that  I  should  not  have  Flush  back  the 
next  time,  for  less  than  ten  guineas  ?     But  you  will  let  him 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  459 

come  with  us  to  Italy,  instead — will  you  not,  dear,  dear- 
est? in  good  earnest,  will  you  not?  Because,  if  I  leave 
him  behind,  lie  will  be  teazed  for  my  sins  in  this  house — 
or  I  could  not  be  sure  of  the  reverse  of  it.  And  even  if  he 
escaped  that  fate,  consider  how  he  would  break  his  heart 
about  me.  Dogs  pine  to  death  sometimes — and  if  ever  a 
dog  loved  a  man,  or  a  woman,  Flush  loves  me.  But  you 
say  that  he  shall  keep  the  house  at  Pisa — and  you  mean 
it,  I  hope  and  I  think? — you  are  in  earnest.  May  God 
bless  you, — so,  I  say  my  prayers  though  I  missed  the 
Church.  To-morrow,  comes  my  letter  .  .  come  my  two 
letters !  the  happy  Monday  !  The  happier  Tuesday,  if  on 
Tuesday  comes  the  writer  of  the  letters ! 

His  very  own  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Sunday  Afternoon. 
[Post-mark,  August  24,  1846.] 

This  time,  they  brought  me  your  letter  at  six  o'clock 
yesterday  evening :  was  I  startled,  or  no,  do  you  think,  as 
I  received  it?  But  all  proved  right,  and  kind  as  ever,  or 
kinder.  By  the  post-mark,  I  see  you  did  go  out.  Can 
you  care  in  this  way  for  my  disappointments  and  remedy 
them?  If  I  did  not  love  you,  how  I  would  begin  now! 
Every  day  shows  me  more  to  love  in  you,  dearest,  and  I 
open  my  arms  as  wide  as  I  can  .  .  '  incomprehensible ' 
Ba,  as  Donne  would  say !  Also  he  would  say  much  better 
things,  however. 

What  a  visitation!  Miss  Martineau  is  the  more  for- 
midable friend,  however — Mrs.  Jameson  will  be  contented 
with  a  little  confidence,  you  see,  and  ask  no  questions — 
but  I  doubt  if  you  arrange  matters  so  easily  with  the  new- 
comer. Because  no  great  delicacy  can  be  kept  alive  with 
all  that  conceit — and  such  conceit !  A  lady  told  me  a  few 
weeks  ago  that  she  had  seen  a  letter  in  which  Miss  M. 
gave  as  her  reason  for  not  undertaking  then,  during  the 


460  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  24 

London  season,  this  very  journey  which  empty  London  is 
to  benefit  from  now,  '  that  at  such  a  time  she  should  be 
mobbed  to  death ' :  whereupon  the  lady  went  on  to  com- 
ment, '  Miss  M.  little  knows  what  London  is,  and  how 
many  nearly  as  notable  objects  may  be  found  to  divert  its 
truculence  from  herself  ' — Tom  Thumb,  and  Ibrahim  Pacha, 
to  wit. 

Why  do  you  suspect  that  you  '  teaze  '  me  when  you  say 
'  there  will  remain  too  much  use  for  the  word  "  painful "  '  ? 
Do  you  not  know  more  of  me  by  this  time,  my  own  Ba? 
When  I  have  spoken  of  the  probable  happiness  of  our 
future  life — of  the  chances  in  our  favour  from  a  community 
of  tastes  and  feelings, — I  have  really  done  it  on  your  ac- 
count, not  mine.  I  very  well  know  that  there  would  be  an 
exquisite,  secret  happiness  through  pain  with  you,  or  for 
you — but  it  is  not  for  me  to  insist  on  that,  with  that  divine 
diffidence  in  your  own  worth  which  meets  me  wherever  I 
turn  to  approach  you,  and  puts  me  so  gently  aside  .  .  so 
I  rather  retire  and  content  myself  with  occupying  the 
ground  you  do  concede  .  .  and  since  y ou  will  only  hear  of 
my  being  happy  in  the  obvious,  ordinary  way,  I  tell  you, 
with  perfect  truth,  that  you,  and  only  you,  can  make  me 
thus — that  only  you,  of  all  women,  look  in  the  direction 
that  I  look,  and  feel  as  I  feel,  and  live  for  the  ends  of  my 
life ;  and  beside  that,  see  with  my  eyes  the  most  natural 
and  immediate  way  of  reaching  them,  through  a  simple 
life,  retirements  from  the  world  here  (not  from  the  real 
world),  travel,  and  the  rest.  But  all  the  while  I  know  .  . 
do  not  you  know,  Ba?  .  .  that  the  joy's  essence  is  in  the 
life  with  you,  for  the  sake  of  you,  not  of  the  mere  vulgar 
happiness ;  and  that  if  any  of  our  calculations  should  fail, 
it  will  be  a  surprise,  a  delight,  a  pride  to  me  to  take  the  new 
taste  you  shall  prescribe,  or  leave  the  old  one  you  forbid. 
My  life  being  yours,  what  matters  the  change  which  you 
effect  in  it? 

Here,  you  mean  not  even  so  much  as  this  by  your 
'  painful ' — '  Elopement ' !     Let  them   call  it  '  felony  '  or 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAREETT  461 

'  burglary ' — so  long  as  they  don't  go  to  church  with  as, 
and  propose  my  health  after  breakfast !  Now  you  fancy 
this  a  gratuitous  piece  of  impertinence,  do  you  not,  Ba? 
You  are  wrong,  sweet :  I  speak  from  directest  experience 
— having  dreamed,  the  night  before  last,  that  we  were  mar- 
ried, and  that  on  adjourning  to  the  house  of  a  friend  of 
mine,  his  brother,  a  young  fop  I  know  slightly,  made  a 
speech,  about  a  certain  desk  or  dressing-case,  which  he 
ended  by  presenting  to  me  in  the  name  of  the  house! 
Whereto  I  replied  in  a  strain  of  the  most  alarming  fluency 
(  .  .  all  in  the  dream,  I  need  not  tell  you)  — '  and  then  I 
woke. '  Oh  can  I  have  smiled,  higher  up  in  the  letter,  at 
Miss  Martineau's  over-excitability  on  the  subject  of  '  mob- 
bing '  here?  The  greatest  coward  is  the  wisest  man  .  . 
even  the  suspicion  of  such  mobs  ought  to  keep  people  at 
their  lakes,  or  send  them  to  their  Pisas. 

By  the  way,  Byron  speaks  of  plucking  oranges  in  his 
garden  at  Pisa  .  .  I  saw  just  a  courtyard  with  a  high  wall 
— which  may  have  b^n  a  garden  .  .  but  a  gloomier  one 
than  the  palace,  eve^  warrants.  They  have  painted  the 
front  fresh  staring  yellow  and  changed  its  name  .  .  there 
being  another  Casa  Lanfranchi  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Arno. 

Now  I  will  kiss  you,  dearest:  used  you  to  divine  that 
at  the  very  beginning,  I  have  sometimes  shortened  the  visit 
in  order  to  arrive  at  the  time  of  taking  your  hand? 

You  will  write  to  me  to-night,  I  think — Tuesday  is 
our  day,  remember.  May  God  bless  you,  my  very  very 
dearest — 

Your  K 

That  sonnet  will  not  turn  up — it  is  neither  in  Vasari, 
nor  Dolce,  nor  Castiglione  .  .  probably  in  Richardson's 
'  Painting  '  which  somebody  has  borrowed — but  I  will  find 
it  yet,  knowing  that  it  must  be  near  at  hand. 


462  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  24 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post- mark,  August  24,  1846.] 

My  own  dearest,  let  me  say  the  most  urgent  thing  first. 
You  hear  these  suspicions  of  your  brothers.  Will  you 
consider  if,  during  this  next  month,  we  do  not  risk  too 
much  in  seeing  each  other  as  usual?  We  risk  everything 
.  .  and  what  do  we  gain,  in  the  face  of  that?  I  can  learn 
no  more  about  you,  be  taught  no  new  belief  in  your  abso- 
lute peerlessness — I  have  taken  my  place  at  your  feet  for 
ever :  all  my  use  of  the  visits  is,  therefore,  the  perfect  de- 
light of  them  .  .  and  to  hazard  a  whole  life  of  such  de- 
light for  the  want  of  self-denial  during  a  little  month, — that 
would  be  horrible.  I  altogether  sympathise  with  your 
brothers'  impatience,  or  curiosity,  or  anxiety,  or  '  grave- 
ness  '—and  am  prepared  for  their  increasing  and  growing 
to  heights  difficult  or  impossible  to  be  borne.  But  do  you 
not  think  we  may  avoid  compelling  any  premature  crisis 
of  this  kind?  I  am  guided  by  your  feelings,  as  I  seem  to 
perceive  them,  in  this  matter ;  the  harm  to  be  apprehended 
is  through  the  harm  to  them — to  your  brothers.  If  they 
determine  on  avowedly  'knowing  what  we  intend,  I  do  not 
see  which  to  fear  most;  the  tacit  acquiescence  in  our 
scheme  which  may  draw  down  a  vengeance  on  them  with- 
out doing  us  the  least  good,  — or  the  open  opposition  which 
would  bring  about  just  so  much  additional  misfortune.  I 
know,  now,  your  perfect  adequacy  to  any  pain  and  danger 
you  will  incur  for  our  love's  sake — I  believe  in  you  as  you 
would  have  me  believe :  but  give  yourself  to  me,  dearest 
dearest  Ba,  the  entire  creature  you  are,  and  not  a  lacerated 
thing  only  reaching  my  arms  to  sink  there.  Perhaps  this 
is  all  a  sudden  fancy,  not  justified  by  circumstances,  aris- 
ing from  my  ignorance  of  the  characters  of  those  I  talk 
about ;  that  is  for  you  to  decide — your  least  word  reassures 
me,  as  always.     But  I  fear  much  for  you,  to  make  up,  per- 


1848]  AKD  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  463 

haps,  for  there  being  nothing  else  in  the  world  fit  to  fear : 
I  exclude  direct  visitations  of  God,  which  cannot  be  feared, 
after  all — dreadful  dooms  to  which  we  should  bow.  But 
the  '  fear '  proper,  means  with  me  an  apprehension  that, 
with  all  my  best  effort,  it  may  be  unable  to  avert  some 
misfortune  .  .  the  effort  going  on  all  the  time :  and  this  is 
a  real  effort,  dearest  Ba,  this  letter:  consider  it  thus.  I 
will  (if  possible)  send  it  to  town,  so  as  to  reach  you  earlier 
and  allow  you  to  write  one  line  in  reply.  You  have  heard 
all  I  can  say  .  .  say  you,  shall  I  come  to-morrow  ?  If  you 
think  it  advisable,  I  will  come  and  be  most  happy. 

Another  thing:  you  see  your  excitement  about  the 
church  and  the  crowd  .  .  My  own  love,  are  you  able, — 
with  all  that  great,  wonderful  heart  of  yours, — to  bear  the 
railway  fatigues,  and  the  entering  and  departure  from 
Paris  and  Orleans  and  the  other  cities  and  towns?  Would 
not  the  long  sea-voyage  be  infinitely  better,  if  a  little 
dearer?  Or  what  can  be  dear  if  it  prevents  all  that  risk, 
or  rather  certainty,  of  excitement  and  fatigue?  You  see, 
the  packet  sails  on  the  30th  September  and  the  15 th  Octo- 
ber. As  three  of  us  go,  they  would  probably  make  some 
reduction  in  price.  Ah,  even  here,  I  must  smile  .  .  will 
you  affirm  that  ever  an  approximation  to  a  doubt  crossed 
your  mind  about  Flush?  I  think  your  plans  with  respect 
to  '  Blackwood  '  most  excellent — I  see  many  advantages. 

Here  is  the  carriage  for  my  sister,  who  is  going  to  stay 
in  town  at  the  Arnoulds'  for  a  week, — with  Mrs.  A.  in  it  to 
fetch  her.  I  shall  give  this  letter  to  be  put  in  the  post — I 
have  all  to  say,  but  the  very  essential  is  said — understand 
me,  my  best,  only  love,  and  forgive  my  undue  alarm,  for 
the  sake  of  the  love  that  prompts  it.  Write  the  one  line 
.  .  do  not  let  me  do  m}rself  wrong  by  my  anxiety — if  I 
may  come,  let  me  1    Bless  you,  Ba. 


464  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  25 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  August  25,  1846.] 

Dearest,  how  you  frightened  me  wijbh  the  sight  of  your 
early  letter!  But  it  is  only  your  wisdom, — which  by  this 
time  should  scarcely  startle  me, — there's  a  compliment,  to 
begin  with,  you  see,  in  change  for  all  the  praises;  .  .  my 
'  peerlessness '(!!!)  being  settled  like  the  Corn  Law  re- 
peal ! — oh,  you  want  no  more  evidence  of  it,  not  you !  (poor 
blind  you !)  and  the  other  witnesses  are  bidden  to  '  stand 
down  ' — '  I  may  smile  even  now  '  ...  as  you  say  quoad 
Flush,  .  .  smile  at  your  certainty  as  you  smile  at  my  doubt. 
Will  you  let  me  smile,  and  not  call  it  a  peerless  insolence, 
or  ingratitude, — dearest  you? 

For  dearest  you  are,  and  best  in  the  world,  .  .  it  all 
comes  to  that,  .  .  and  considerate  for  me  always :  and  at 
once  I  agree  with  you  that  for  this  interval  it  will  be  wise 
for  us  to  set  the  visits,  .  .  '  our  days  .  .  far  apart,  .  . 
nearly  a  week  apart,  perhaps,  so  as  to  escape  the  dismal 
evils  we  apprehend.  I  agree  in  all  you  say— in  all.  At 
the  same  time,  the  cloud  has  passed  for  the  present — noth- 
ing has  been  said  more,  and  not  a  word  to  me ;  and  nobody 
appears  out  of  humour  with  me.  They  will  be  displeased 
of  course,  in  the  first  movement  .  .  we  must  expect  that 
.  .  they  will  be  vexed  at  the  occasion  given  to  conversa- 
tion and  so  on.  But  it  will  be  a  passing  feeling,  and  their 
hearts  and  their  knowledge  of  circumstances  may  be  trusted 
to  justify  me  thoroughly.  I  do  not  fear  offending  them — 
there  is  no  room  for  fear.  At  this  point  of  the  business 
too,  you  r>lace  the  alternative  rightly — their  approbation 
or  their  disapprobation  is  equally  to  be  escaped  from. 
Also,  we  may  be  certain  that  they  would  press  the  apply- 
ing for  permission — and  I  might  perhaps,  in  the  storm  ex- 
cited, among  so  many  opinions  and  feelings,  fail  to  myself 
and  you,  through  weakness  of  the  body.     Not  of  the  Will! 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  465 

And  for  my  affections  and  my  conscience,  they  turn  to  you 
— and  untremblingly  turn. 

Will  you  come  on  Wednesday  rather  than  Tuesday  then? 
It  is  only  one  day  later  than  we  meant  at  first,  but  it  nearly 
completes  a  week  of  separation;  and  we  can  then  go  to 
next  week  for  the  next  day.  Also,  on  Wednesday  we  se- 
cure Mr.  Kenyon's  absence.     He  will  be  still  at  Richmond. 

Your  letter  which  startled  me  by  coming  early,  yet 
came  too  late  for  you  to  receive  the  answer  to  it  to-night. 
But  I  will  send  it  to  the  post  to-night;  and  I  write  hur- 
riedly to  be  in  time  for  that  end. 

My  own  beloved,  you  shall  not  be  uneasy  on  my  ac- 
count.— I  send  you  foolishnesses  and  you  are  daunted  by 
them — but  see !  What  affects  me  in  those  churches  and 
chapels  is  something  different,  quite  different,  from  rail- 
road noises  and  the  like.  You  do  not  understand,  and  I 
never  explained,  .  .  you  could  not  understand — but  the 
music,  the  sight  of  the  people,  the  old  tunes  of  hymns  .  . 
all  these  things  seem  to  suffocate  my  very  soul  with  the 
sense  of  the  past,  past  days,  when  there  was  one  beside  me 
who  is  not  here  now — I  am  upset,  overwhelmed  with  it  all. 
I  think  I  should  have  been  quite  foolishly,  hysterically  ill 
yesterday  if  I  had  persisted  in  staying.  Next  Sunday  I 
shall  go  to  the  vestry,  and  see  nobody,  and  get  over  it  by 
degrees. 

Well — but  for  the  sea-voyage,  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
great  thing  for  us  to  ascertain  is  the  precise  expense.  I 
should  not  at  all  mind  going  by  sea,  only  that  I  fear  the 
expense,  and  also  that  it  is  necessary  to  take  our  passages 
some  time  before,  .  .  and  then,  if  anything  happened  .  . 
I  mean  any  little  thing  .  .  an  obstacle  for  a  day  or  two ! 
Consider  our  circumstances. 

I  shall  write  again  perhaps.  Do  not  rely,  though,  on 
my  writing.  Perhaps  I  shall  write.  I  shall  think  of  your 
goodness  certainly!  May  God  bless  you,  dearest  be- 
loved, I  love,  love  you !    I  cannot  be  more 

Your  own. 
Vol.  II.— 30 


466  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  25 

Don't  forget  to  bring  the  paper  on  '  Colombe's  Birth- 
day,'— and  say  particularly  how  you  are — and  how  your 
mother. 

In  such  haste  I  write ! — ■ 

R.  B.  to  R  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  August  25,  1846.] 

When  your  letter  came,  my  love,  I  could  have  easily 
borne  the  over-ruling  its  objections  to  a  visit  to-day,  for 
all  my  cautious  philosophy !  But  it  seems  best  arranged 
as  at  present  .  .  indeed  it  must  be  best,  if  you  agree.  To- 
morrow repays  me :  nor  is  very  long  to  wait ! 

I  will  only  write  briefly  because  I  want  to  go  to  Town, 
(since  there  is  nothing  better  practicable),  and  enquire 
precisely  about  that  steamboat  and  the  prices.  I  see  that 
one  may  go  to  Trieste,  a  much  greater  journey,  for  '£12 
and  £15,'  according  to  Mr.  Waghorn's  bill.  Besides,  the 
advertisement  speaks  of  the  '  economy  '  of  this  way — and 
certainly  under  ordinary  circumstances  anybody  would 
prefer  the  river-voyage  with  its  picturesqueness.  There 
is  a  long  account,  in  the  paper  to-day,  of  the  earthquakes 
in  Tuscany — which  have  really  been  formidable  enough  to 
keep  away  the  travelling  English  for  the  next  month  or 
two — whole  villages  were  overthrown,  Leghorn  has  suffered 
considerably,  the  inhabitants  bivouac  outside  the  walls — 
and  at  Pisa  the  roof  of  a  church  fell  in  .  .  also  the  villas 
in  the  vicinity  have  been  damaged.  Do  you  fear,  dearest? 
If  you  do  not, — I  fear  that  the  eligibility  of  Pisa  as  our 
place  of  abode  is  only  doubled  and  tripled  by  all  this. 
Think;  there  is  a  new  lake  risen,  just  by  !  and  great  puffs 
of  sulphureous  smoke  came  up  through  chinks  in  the  plains. 
How  do  these  wonders  affect  you? 

You  asked  me  about  Ossian — now  here  is  truth — the 
first  book  I  ever  bought  in  my  life  was  Ossian  .  .  it  is 
now  in  the  next  room.  And  years  before  that,  the  first 
composition  I  ever  was  guilty  of  was  something  in  imitation 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  467 

of  Ossian,  whom  I  had  not  read,  but  conceived,  through 
two  or  three  scraps  in  other  books — I  never  can  recollect 
not  writing  rhymes  .  .  but  I  knew  they  were  nonsense 
even  then;  this,  however,  I  thought  exceedingly  well  of, 
and  laid  up  for  posterity  under  the  cushion  of  a  great  arm- 
chair. '  And  now  my  soul  is  satisfied  ' — so  said  one  man 
after  killing  another,  the  death  being  suggested,  in  its 
height  of  honour,  by  stars  and  stars  (****).  I  could 
not  have  been  five  years  old,  that's  one  consolation.  Years 
after,  when  I  bought  this  book,  I  found  a  vile  dissertation  of 
Laing  .  .  all  to  prove  Ossian  was  not  Ossian  .  .  I  would 
not  read  it,  but  could  not  help  knowing  the  purpose  of  it, 
and  the  pith  of  the  hatefully-irresistible  arguments.  The 
worst  came  in  another  shape,  though  .  .  an  after-gleaning 
of  real  Ossianic  poems,  by  a  firm  believer  whose  name  I 
forget — '  if  this  is  the  real ' — I  thought !  Well,  to  this  day 
I  believe  in  a  nucleus  for  all  that  haze,  a  foundation  of  truth 
to  Macpherson's  fanciful  superstructure — and  I  have  been 
long  intending  to  read  once  again  those  Fingals  and  Mal- 
vinas. 

I  remember  that  somewhere  a  chief  cries  '  Come  round 
me,  my  thousands ! ' — There  is  an  Achilles !  And  another, 
complaining  of  old  age  remarks  'Now — I  feel  the  weight  of 
my  shield ! '  Nestor ;  and  both  beautifully  perfect,  are 
they  not,  you  perfect  Ba? 

I  will  go  now.  To-morrow  I  trust  to  see  you  face  to 
face ;  dearest  that  you  are ! 

Ever  your  own. 

My  poor  mother  suffers  greatly.     I  am  much  better. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday,  6  p.m. 
[Post-mark,  August  26,  1846.] 

I  have  just  had  a  note  from  Mr.  Kenyon,  who,  after  his 
absence  at  Richmond,  promises  to  come  and  see  me  on 
Thursday    afternoon.     Now  .  .  would  it  be  quite  '  unco 


468  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  26 

guid '  of  us  .  .  and  wise  '  above  what  is  written '  (in  your 
letter)  if  we  put  off  our  day  to  Friday,  and  gave  me  the 
power  to  answer  to  Mr.  Kenyon's  certain  question,  .  . 
'  no,  I  have  not  seen  him  since  I  saw  you. '  ?  If  you  think 
it  would  be  wise,  my  own  dearest,  why  do  not  come  to- 
morrow ;  do  not  come  till  Friday.  See — to-day  is  Tues- 
day, and  only  two  days  more  will  intervene, — and  we  are 
agreed  on  the  necessity  of  prudence  for  the  coming  weeks 
— particularly  when  my  brothers  have  nothing  particular  to 
do,  at  this  time  of  vacation,  but  to  watch  us  on  all  sides.  I 
am  so  nervous  that  my  own  footsteps  startle  me.  But  quite 
well  I  am,  and  you  shall  not  have  fancies  about  me — as  to 
strength,  I  mean — as  to  what  I  cannot  do,  bear,  and  the  like. 

To-night  I  shall  write  a  letter  as  usual.  This  is  a  bare 
line,  which  Henrietta  will  throw  into  the  post,  to  speak  to 
you  of  to-morrow.     The  letter  follows. 

How  I  miss  you,  and  long  for  Friday.  If  you  have  an 
engagement  for  Friday,  there  is  Saturday.  '  Understand* 
.  .  as  you  say,  and  I  repeat. 

To-night  I  will  tell  you  where  I  went  to-day. 
Your  own  I  am  always 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  August  26,  1846.] 

'  Nor  is  it  very  long  to  wait  '—Alas  ! — My  note  went  two 
hours  ago  to  cross  out  the  application  of  that  phrase,  and 
now  it  is  very  long  to  wait,  .  .  all  the  days  to  Friday. 
Tell  me,  dearest,  if  you  think  it  wise,  at  least,  to  make 
such  an  unhappy  arrangement,  .  .  considering,  you  know, 
Mr.  Kenyon  and  my  brothers.  It  ought  to  be  wise,  / 
think  .  .  it  is  so  unhappy  and  disappointing.  Consider 
what  I  am  without  you  all  this  long  dreary  while;  and  how 
little  ever  so  much  sense  of  wisdom  can  console  anybody. 

Friday  will  come  however, — and  I  may  as  well  go  on 
to  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Jameson  came  yesterday.     'Anything 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  469 

settled  ? '  she  asked ;  as  she  walked  into  the  room.  She 
looked  at  me  with  resolute,  enquiring  eyes.  I  wonder  if 
she  ever  approaches  to  the  divination  of  something  like  the 
truth — not  the  truth,  but  like  it.  Either  she  must  see  in- 
distinctly £  something  new  and  strange, '  or  attribute  to  me 
a  strange  delight  in  the  mysterious.  She  half  promised 
to  see  me  again  before  she  leaves  England,  and  begged  me  to 
write  and  tell  her  all  whenever  I  shall  have  it  in  my  power  to 
make  the  communication.  Affectionate  she  was,  as  always. 
To-day  I  have  seen  nobody,  except  Mr.  Boyd  for  a  lit- 
tle, after  driving  through  street  upon  street,  where  I  might 
have  met  you  if  I  had  been  happy  enough.  Albemarle 
Street  .  .  were  you  there  ?  I  sate  there,  in  the  carriage, 
opposite  to  the  York  Hotel,  while  Henrietta  paid  her  visit 
to  old  Lady  Bolingbroke,  a  full  half  hour  .  .  Flush  and  I 
— Flush  staring  out  of  the  window,  and  I  .  .  doing  what  I 
generally  do  in  this  room,  do  you  ask  what  it  was?  At  the 
end  of  some  twenty  minutes,  a  boy  passed,  who  had  the 
impertinence  to  look  full  at  Flush  and  whistle,  whereupon 
Flush  growled,  and  appealed  to  me  with  two  immense  eyes 
.  .  both  seeming  to  say  '  I  hope  you  observe  how  I  am 
insulted.'  So  my  reverie  was  broken  in  the  middle — but 
being  better  tempered,  rather,  than  Flush,  or  having  larger 
resources,  I  did  not  growl,  but  took  your  latest  letter  out 
instead,  which  lasted  for  the  whole  remainder  of  the  time. 
Then  at  Mr.  Boyd's  .  .  oh,  I  must  tell  you  .  .  he  began 
to  tell  me  some  romantic  compliment  of  several  young 
ladies  who  desired  to  be  disguised  in  servant's  accoutre- 
ments, just  to  open  the  door  to  me  (to  have  a  good  stare,  I 
suppose)  or,  in  good  earnest,  to  be  my  maid !  (to  go  with 
us  to  Pisa,  dearest  .  .  how  would  you  like  that? — Seri- 
ously now  do  just  calculate  the  wonderful  good  fortune  of 
such  a  person,  in  falling  upon  two  lions  instead  of  one — 
nay,  on  a  great  wild  forest-lion,  this  time,  in  addition  to  the 
little  puny  lioness  of  the  original  bargain !)  Well ! — but 
when  Mr.  Boyd  had  done  his  report,  I  asked  naturally, 
'  And  what  am  I  to  say  to  all  this?  '     '  Why  you  are  to  say 


470  THE  LETTERS  OF  EOBEET  BROWNING  [August  26 

that  you  will  be  good-natured,  and  give  somebody  pleas- 
ure at  the  cost  of  no  pain  to  yourself,  and  go  to  the  room 
downstairs  and  speak  three  words  to  Miss  Smith  who  is 
there,  waiting.5  Imagine  anybody  having  a  Miss  Smith 
ready  in  the  drawing-room  to  let  out  upon  one !  Imagine 
me  too  (to  be  less  abstract)  walking  in  to  that  same  Miss 
Smith,  .  .  to  the  effect  of — !  '  Here  I  am !  just  come  to 
be  looked  at.     Is  it  at  all  what  you  expected,  Miss  Smith  '  ? 

The  worst  was,  that  dear  Mr.  Boyd  would  have  set  it 
down  to  a  species  of  malignancy,  if  I  had  refused — so  I 
took  my  courage  up  with  both  hands,  and  remembering 
that  I  had  seen  two  or  three  times,  years  ago,  the  step- 
mother of  the  said  Miss  Smith,  I  thought  I  might  enquire 
after  her  with  a  sort  of  propriety.  And  I  got  through  it 
somehow.  '  Will  you  let  me  shake  hands  with  you  and 
ask  how  Mrs.  Smith  is?  Does  she  remember  me,  I  won- 
der? I  am  Elizabeth  Barrett.' — 'Is  it  possible?  Ah!  I 
thought  you  were  one  of  your  sisters  at  first !  Dear  me ! 
Why  how  much  better,  you  must  be,  to  be  sure ! — Oh  dear 
me,  what  an  illness  you  have  had !  Ah,  quite  shut  up  so 
long!  How  very,  very  interesting,  to  be  sure.' — If  Flush 
had  swallowed  her  up  in  the  middle,  I  might  have  forgiven 
him,  to  be  sure.  So  interesting  too,  that  catastrophe 
would  have  been !  But  you  shall  not  set  me  down  as  a 
savage — it  was  all  kindness  on  her  side,  of  course — but  one 
may  be  savage  to  a  situation  .  .  (which  is  just  the  way  with 
me,   .  .)  without  being  a  born  barbarian  woman. 

As  to  Miss  Martineau,  the  expression  which  sounds  so 
rampant  with  conceit,  may  yet  be  the  plainest  proof  of  a 
mere  instinct  of  self-preservation.  If  three  Smiths  would 
be  mob  enough  to  mob  me  to  death  (and  they  may  make  a 
mob,  as  three  fine  days,  a  summer !),  let  us  have  some 
feeling  for  her,  exposed,  from  various  causes,  to  the  thir- 
ties .   .  at  the  lowest  comparative  computation. 

For  Ossian,  you  admit  the  nucleus.  Which  is  only  like 
your  Ba,  dearest  .  .  you  will  not  stand  higher  as  an  Os- 
sianic  critic  unless  you  believe  the  verbal  authenticity, 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  471 

'  nothing  extenuating. '  The  cushion  of  the  armchair ! 
My  place  of  deposit  used  to  be  between  the  mattresses  of 
my  crib — a  little  mahogany  crib  with  cane  sides  to  it. 
You  were  like  Lord  Byron  (another  point  of  likeness !)  in 
imitating  Ossian,  but  you  were  still  earlier  at  the  work 
than  he  was. 

It  is  very  well  to  ascertain  the  prices  by  the  steamers ; 
though  my  expectation  is  that  you  will  find  them  higher 
than  you  fancy  them.  Nineteen  guineas  was  the  charge  last 
year,  as  far  as  Gibraltar  only.  Then,  if  you  charmed  ever 
so  eloquently  with  the  voice  of  the  charmer,  you  never,  as 
a  passenger,  would  induce  those  people  to  diminish  the 
rate,  because  of  our  being  three ;  and  a  female  servant  is 
charged  for  at  the  higher  rate  .  .  if  not  the  highest. 
Altogether  the  expenses  will  be,  out  of  all  comparison, 
beyond  that  of  the  passage  through  France  .  .  .  see  if  it 
will  not.  Ten  pounds,  as  far  as  the  travelling  goes,  seem 
to  cover  everything,  in  going  from  hence  to  Leghorn  .  . 
to  Pisa  .  .  taking  Rouen  and  Orleans — and  meaning  of 
course,  for  one  person.  And  if  the  advantages  are,  as  you 
describe,  besides  .  .  why  should  we  forego  them?  7s  the 
fatigue  so  much  greater?  If  there  are  more  changes  and 
shiftings,  there  is  also  more  absolute  rest — and  the  rivers 
are  smoother  than  the  seas.  Still,  it  is  well  to  consider — 
and  there  are  good  reasons  on  each  side,  worthy  of  con- 
sideration. 

So  much  more  I  had  to  say — I  break  off  suddenly,  being 
benighted.  How  you  write  to  me !  how  you  wrote  to  me 
on  Sunday  and  yesterday  !  How  I  wish  for  two  hearts  to 
love  you  with,  and  two  lives  to  give  to  you,  and  two  souls 
to  bear  the  weight  worthily  of  all  you  have  given  to  me. 
But  if  one  heart  and  one  life  will  do,  .  .  they  are  yours 
.  .  I  cannot  give  them  again. 

Beloved,  if  your  mother  should  be  ill,  we  must  not 
think  of  your  leaving  her,  surely  ? 

May  God  blesa  you,  dearest  beloved. 

I  am  your  Ba. 


472  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  26 


B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  26,  1846.] 

Dearest,  I  do  think  it  will  be  only  prudent  to  stay  away 
till  Friday  for  those  reasons.  Oh,  how  I  feel  what  a  Ba, 
mine  is  .  .  how  truly  peerless  a  lady  .  .  when  I  find 
instinctively  at  this  minute  while  I  write,  that  the  proper 
course  will  be  to  seem  as  little  affected  by  this  enforced 
absence  as  possible  .  .  that  knowing  my  love  she  would 
understand  any  comfort  I  take  from  the  eventful  good  of 
the  arrangement — I  have  not  to  dwell  on  the  present  sor- 
row of  it,  lest  she  disbelieve  me !  I  am  your  very  own, 
dearest  dearest,  with  you  or  away  from  you.  Both  your 
notes  came  together  just  now  .  .  how  can  I  thank  and  love 
you  enough?  I  might  have  guessed  that  at  the  end  you 
would  thank  me  for  my  own  letters  .  .  that  is  your  c  trick 
of  fence, '  discovered,  remember !  But  when  you  read  the 
'  red-leaved  tablets  of  the  heart '  .  .  then  be  satisfied  .  . 
'  praise, '  nothing  in  me  to  you  can  deserve. 

I  have  learned  all  particulars  about  the  steamer. 
There  are  only  two  classes  of  passengers  .  .  Servants  being 
the  second.  The  first  pay,  for  the  voyage  to  Leghorn  21?. 
— the  second,  14?.  5s.  all  expenses  included  except  during 
the  stay  at  Genoa.  No  reduction  '  it  is  feared '  could  be 
made  in  the  case  of  so  small  a  party — but  by  booking  early, 
a  separate  cabin  might  be  secured,  at  no  additional  expense. 
In  the  event  of  any  obstacle,  the  passage  paid  for  may  be 
postponed  till  the  departure  of  the  next,  or  any  future  ves- 
sel of  the  company.  Now,  you  see,  these  rates,  though 
moderate,  I  think — (the  ordinary  term  of  the  passage  to 
Genoa  is  eleven  days) — are  yet  considerably  above  those  of 
the  other  method  by  at  least  20?.,  I  should  say.  The 
voyage  is  long,  supremely  tiresome,  and  in  all  respects  so 
much  less  interesting  than  the  French  route,  that  the  whole 
scheme  can  only  be  constructed  for  those  to  whom  any 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  473 

other  mode  of  travel  is  impossible.  The  one  question  to 
be  asked  therefore  is  .  .  are  you  really  convinced  that  you 
need  not  be  treated  as  one  of  these?  And  on  further  con- 
sideration, there  arise  not  a  few  doubts  as  to  whether  the 
sea-voyage  be  not  the  more  difficult  of  the  two — the  rough- 
ness is  all  between  here  and  Gibraltar — and  in  the  case  of 
that  affecting  you  more  seriously  than  we  hope,  there 
would  be  no  possibility  of  escaping  from  the  ship — whereas, 
should  you  be  indisposed  on  the  other  route,  we  can  stop 
at  once  and  stay  for  any  period.  Then,  the  '  shiftings ' 
are  only  three  or  four,  and  probably  accompanied  by  no 
very  great  fatigue  beyond  the  notion  that  a  shifting  there 
is.  Above  all,  you  would  get  the  first  of  the  sea  in  a  little 
experiment,  soon  made  and  over, — so  that  if  it  proved  unfa- 
vourable to  you  there  might  be  an  end  of  the  matter  at 
once.  So  that  after  all,  the  cheaper  journey  may  be  the 
safer.  But  all  does  not  rest  with  you  quite,  as  I  was  going 
to  say  .  .  all  my  life  is  bound  up  with  the  success  of  this 
measure  .  .  therefore,  think  and  decide,  my  Ba ! 

Would  there  be  an  advantage  in  Mrs.  Jameson  accom- 
panying us — to  Orleans,  at  least?  Would  the  circum- 
stances of  our  marriage  alter  her  desire,  do  you  think? 
She  has  wished  to  travel  with  me,  also — she  must  suspect 
the  truth — I  doubt  whether  it  is  not  in  such  cases  as  hers, 
where  no  responsibility  is  involved,  whether  it  is  not  bet- 
ter policy,  as  well  as  the  more  graceful,  to  communicate 
what  is  sure  to  be  discovered — so  getting  thanks  and  sym- 
pathy instead  of  neither.     All  is  for  you  to  consider. 

And  now,  dearest,  I  will  revert,  in  as  few  words  as  I 
can,  to  the  account  you  gave  me,  a  short  time  since,  of 
your  income.  At  the  beginning,  if  there  had  been  the 
necessity  I  supposed,  I  should  have  proposed  to  myself 
the  attainment  of  something  like  such  an  amount,  by  my 
utmost  efforts,  before  we  could  marry.  We  could  not 
under  the  circumstances  begin  with  less — so  as  to  be  free 
from  horrible  contingencies,  — not  the  least  of  which  would 
be  the  application  for  assistance   afterward.     After  we 


474  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  36 

marry,  nobody  must  hear  of  us.  In  spite  of  a  few  misgiv  - 
ings  at  first  I  am  not  proud,  or  rather,  am  proud  in  the 
right  place.  I  am  utterly,  exclusively  proud  of  you — and 
though  I  should  have  gloried  in  working  myself  to  death 
to  prove  it,  and  shall  be  as  ready  to  do  so  at  any  time  a 
necessity  shall  exist,  yet  at  present  I  shall  best  serve  you, 
I  think,  by  the  life  by  your  side,  which  we  contemplate. 
I  hope  and  believe,  that  by  your  side  I  shall  accomplish 
something  to  justify  God's  goodness  and  yours — and,  look- 
ing at  the  matter  in  a  worldly  light,  I  see  not  a  few  reasons 
for  thinking  that  unproductive  as  the  kind  of  literature 
may  be,  which  I  should  aim  at  producing,  yet,  by  judicious 
management,  and  profiting  by  certain  favourable  circum- 
stances,— I  shall  be  able  to  realise  an  annual  sum  quite 
sufficient  for  every  purpose — at  least  in  Italy. 

As  I  never  calculated  on  such  a  change  in  my  life,  I  had 
the  less  repugnance  to  my  father's  generosity,  that  I  knew 
that  an  effort  at  some  time  or  other  might  furnish  me  with 
a  few  hundred  pounds  which  would  soon  cover  my  very 
simple  expenses.  If  we  are  poor,  it  is  to  my  father's  infi- 
nite glory,  who,  as  my  mother  told  me  last  night,  as  we 
sate  alone,  '  conceived  such  a  hatred  to  the  slave-system  in 
the  West  Indies, '  (where  his  mother  was  born,  who  died  in 
his  infancy),  that  he  relinquished  every  prospect, — sup- 
ported himself,  while  there,  in  some  other  capacity,  and 
came  back,  while  yet  a  boy,  to  his  father's  profound  aston- 
ishment and  rage — one  proof  of  which  was,  that  when  he 
heard  that  his  son  was  a  suitor  to  her,  my  mother — he  be- 
nevolently waited  on  her  uncle  to  assure  him  that  his  niece 
would  be  thrown  away  on  a  man  so  evidently  born  to  be 
hanged ! — those  were  his  words.  My  father  on  his  return 
had  the  intention  of  devoting  himself  to  art,  for  which  he 
had  many  qualifications  and  abundant  love — but  the  quar- 
rel with  his  father, — who  married  again  and  continued  to 
hate  him  till  a  few  years  before  his  death,  — induced  him 
to  go  at  once  and  consume  his  life  after  a  fashion  he  always 
detested.     You  may  fancy,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  him. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  475 

I  told  my  mother,  who  told  him.  They  have  never  been 
used  to  interfere  with,  or  act  for  me — and  they  trust  me. 
If  you  care  for  any  love,  purely  love, — you  will  have  theirs 
— they  give  it  you,  whether  you  take  it  or  no.  You  will 
understand,  therefore,  that  I  would  not  accept  even  the 
100£.  we  shall  want :  I  said  c  you  shall  lend  it  me — I  will 
pay  it  back  out  of  my  first  literary  earnings — I  take  it, 
because  I  do  not  want  to  sell  my  copyrights,  or  engage 
myself  to  write  a  play,  or  any  other  nuisance.  Surely  I 
can  get  fifty  pounds  next  year,  and  the  other  fifty  in  due 
course ! ' 

So,  dearest,  we  shall  have  plenty  for  the  journey — and 
you  have  only  to  determine  the  when  and  the  how.  Oh, 
the  time !  Bless  you,  ever  dearest !  I  love  you  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul — 

B. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  August  27,  1846.] 

1  If  I  care  for  any  love ' — '  whether  I  take  it  or  no. '  Now 
ought  I  not  to  reproach  you  a  little,  for  bearing  to  write 
such  words  of  me,  when  you  could  not  but  think  all  the 
while,  that  I  should  feel  a  good  deal  in  reading  what  you 
wrote  beside?  Will  you  tell  me  that  you  did  not  know  I 
should  be  glad  and  grateful  for  tolerance  even? — the  least 
significance  of  the  kinder  feeling  affecting  me  beyond,  per- 
haps, what  you  could  know  of  me.  I  am  bound  to  them 
utterly. 

And  if  it  is  true,  as  it  is  true,  that  they  have  much  to 
pardon  and  overlook  in  me,  .  .  and  among  the  rest,  the 
painful  position  imposed  on  you  by  my  miserable  necessi- 
ties, .  .  they  yet  never  shall  find  me,  I  trust,  unworthy  of 
them  and  you  by  voluntary  failures,  and,  least  of  all,  by 
failures  of  dutiful  affection  towards  themselves — '  if  they 

CARE  FOR  ANY  LOVE. ' 

For  the  rest  of  what  you  tell  me,  it  is  all  the  purest 


476  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  27 

kindness — and  you  were  perfectly,  perfectly  right  in  tak- 
ing so,  and  as  a  loan,  which  we  ought,  I  think,  to  return 
when  our  hands  are  free,  without  waiting  for  the  comple- 
tion of  other  projects.  By  living  quietly  and  simply,  we 
shall  surely  have  enough — and  more  than  enough.  Then 
among  other  resources  is  Blackwood.  I  calculated  once 
that  without  unpleasant  labour,  with  scarcely  an  effort,  I 
could  make  a  hundred  a  year  by  magazine-contributions — 
and  this,  without  dishonour  either.  It  does  '  fugitive 
poems, '  observe,  no  harm  whatever,  to  let  them  fly  through 
a  periodical  before  they  alight  on  their  tree  to  sing.  Then 
you  will  send  perhaps  the  sweepings  of  your  desk  to  Black- 
wood, to  alternate  with  my  sendings !  Shall  we  do  that, 
when  we  sit  together  on  the  ragged  edge  of  earthquake 
chasms,  in  the  midst  of  the  '  sulphurous  vapour. '  I, 
afraid?  No  indeed — I  think  I  should  never  be  afraid,  if 
you  were  near  enough.  Only  that  you  never  must  go  away 
in  boats.     But  there  is  time  enough  for  such  compacts. 

As  to  the  sea  voyage,  that  was  your  scheme,  and  not 
mine,  from  the  beginning :  and  your  account  of  the  ex- 
penses, if  below  my  fear  .  .  (although  I  believe  that '  ser- 
vants '  do  not  mean  '  female  servants  '  and  that  the  latter  are 
subject  to  additional  charges),  yet  seems  to  me  to  leave  the 
Rhone  and  Saone  route  as  preferable  as  ever.  And  do  you 
mark,  dear  dearest,  that  supposing  me  to  be  unfit  for  the 
short  railroad  passage  from  Rouen  to  Paris  and  from  Paris 
to  Orleans,  I  must  be  just  as  unfit  for  the  journey  to  South- 
ampton, which  is  necessary  to  the  sea- voyage.  Then  .  . 
supposing  me  to  be  unfit  for  the  river-passage,  I  must  be 
still  more  unfit  for  the  sea.  So  don't  suppose  either.  I 
am  stronger  than  you  fancy.  I  shall  shut  my  eyes  and 
think  of  you  when  there  is  too  much  noise  and  confusion, 
— the  things  which  try  me  most,  — and  it  will  be  easy  to 
find  a  quiet  room  and  to  draw  down  the  blinds  and  take 
rest,  I  suppose,  .  .  which  one  might  in  vain  long  for  in 
that  crowded  steamer  at  sea.  Therefore,  dearest,  if  I  am 
to  think  and  decide,  I  have  decided  .   .  let  us  go  through 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  477 

France.  And  let  us  go  quick,  quick,  and  not  stop  any- 
where within  hearing  of  England  .  .  not  stop  at  Havre, 
nor  at  Rouen,  nor  at  Paris— that  is  how /decide.  May 
God  help  us,  and  smooth  the  way  before  and  behind.  May 
your  father  indeed  be  able  to  love  me  a  little,  for  my  father 
will  never  love  me  again. 

For  you  .  .  you  will  '  serve  me  best '  and  serve  me 
only,  by  being  happy  not  away  from  me.  When  I  shall 
have  none  but  you,  if  I  can  feel  myself  not  too  much  for 
you, — not  something  you  would  rather  leave — then  you 
will  have  '  served '  me  all  you  can.  But  this  is  more  per- 
haps than  you  can — these  things  do  not  depend  on  the  will 
of  a  man — that  he  should  promise  to  do  them.  I  speak 
simply  for  myself,  and  of  what  would  give  me  a  full  con- 
tentment. Do  not  fancy  that  there  is  a  doubt  in  the  words 
of  it.  I  cannot  doubt  now  of  your  affection  for  me.  Dear- 
est, I  cannot.  Yet  you  make  me  uneasy  often  through  this 
extravagance  of  over-estimation;  forcing  me  to  contract 
£  obligations  to  pay '  which  I  look  at  in  speechless  despair 
— And  here  is  a  penny. 

Of  Mrs.  Jameson,  let  me  write  to-morrow — I  am  be- 
nighted and  must  close.  On  Friday  we  shall  meet  at  last, 
surely ;  and  then  it  will  be  all  the  happier  in  proportion  to 
the  vexation.     Dearest,  love  me — 

I  am  your  own — 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  27,  1846.] 

Dearest,  I  am  to  write  to  you  of  Mrs.  Jameson.  First, 
as  to  telling  her  .  .  will  it  not  be  an  embarrassment  both 
to  her  and  ourselves?  If  she  cannot  say  '  I  knew  nothing 
of  this, '  she  bears  the  odium  of  confidante  and  adviser  per- 
haps— who  shall  explain  the  distinction  to  others?  And 
to  Mr.  Kenyon,  will  it  not  seem  as  if  we  had  trusted  her 
more  than  him — and  though  there  is  a  broad  distinction 


4?8  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  21 

too  between  their  cases,  who  shall  explain  that  to  him  so 
quickly  and  nicely  that  he  shall  not  receive  the  shock  of  a 
painful  impression?  Consider  a  little — She  is  so  in  medias 
res — so  in  the  way  of  all  the  conversation  and  the  question- 
ings. But  it  shall  be  as  you  like  and  think  best.  I  am 
too  nervous  perhaps. 

As  for  the  travelling,  she  sets  out  between  the  seventh  and 
tenth  of  September,  a  century  before  our  sera,  you  know — 
but  if  she  goes  to  Italy  and  is  not  too  angry  with  me,  we 
might  certainly  meet  her  in  Paris  or  at  Orleans  .  .  take 
her  up  at  Orleans,  and  go  on  together.  That  is,  if  you 
like  it  too.  She  would  be  pleased,  I  daresay,  if  it  were 
proposed — and  we  might  be  kind  in  proposing  it — and 
something  I  might  say  to  her,  if  you  liked  it,  on  the  con- 
dition of  her  not  changing  her  mind.  Certainly  I  do  agree 
with  you  that  she  must  have  some  ideas — she  is  not  with- 
out imagination,  and  the  suggestions  are  abundant, — 
though  nothing  points  to  you,  mind! — if  she  could  pos- 
sibly think  me  capable  of  loving  anyone  else  in  the  world, 
with  you  in  it. 

I  had  a  letter  to-day  .  .  with  a  proposition  to  write 
ballads  and  other  lyrics  in  order  to  the  civilisation  of  the 
colonies  .  .  especially  Australia.  It  appears  that  a  Mr. 
Angus  Fife  has  a  scheme  on  foot  nearly,  about  sending 
missionary  ballad-singers  among  the  natives,  and  that  I 
am  invited  to  write  some  of  them,  or  to  be  invited — for 
nothing  is  specified  yet.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that? 
One  should  take  one's  mythology  from  the  Kangaroos,  I 
suppose. 

Then  a  book  of  '  serious  poems  '  is  to  be  brought  out 
in  Edinburgh  and  contributions  are  desired  so  very  politely 
that  nobody  can  quite  refuse. 

I  write  to  you  of  anything  but  what  is  in  my  thoughts. 
Your  letter  of  yesterday  took  hold  of  me  and  will  not  let 
me  go — it  all  seems  too  earnest  for  the  mere  dream  I  have 
been  dreaming  all  this  while — is  it  not  a  dream  .  .  or 
what?     And  something  I  said  in  my  letter,   which  was 


1846;)  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKEETT  479 

wrong  to  say  and  I  am  sorry  to  think  of — forgive  me  that, 
ever  beloved — but  you  have  forgiven,  I  know.  May  God 
bless  you,  and  not  take  from  me  my  blessing  in  you. 

I  am  your  very  own  Ba. 

"We  are  going  out  in  the  carriage  and  shall  post  this 
note.  You  will  come  to-morrow  unless  you  hear  more? 
Is  it  a  compact? 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  August  27,  1846.] 

The  post's  old  fault,  is  it  not,  this  letter  that  does  not 
come?  I  have  waited  till  nearly  the  time  of  the  next 
arrival,  3  o'clock,  and  perhaps  I  begin  writing  now  because 
I  have  observed  that  sometimes  the  letter  comes  just  as  I 
am  trying  hardest  to  resign  myself.  So  may  it  be  now, 
or  presently ! 

Dearest,  I  did  not  thank  you  yesterday  for  the  accounts 
of  your  visit  and  drive  .  .  I  always  love  you  for  such  ac- 
counts; you  know,  I  might  like,  we  will  say,  a  Miss  Camp- 
bell, while  she  was  in  the  very  act  of  speaking  Greek  to 
Mr.  Kenyon's  satisfaction,  or  making  verses,  or  putting 
them  into  action — but  there  would  be  no  following  her 
about  the  streets,  and  through  bazaars,  and  into  houses, 
and  loving  the  walking  and  standing  and  sitting  and  com- 
panionship with  Flush !  I  shall  be  satisfied  to  the  full  if 
you  only  live  in  my  sight, — cross  the  room  in  which  I  sit, 
— not  to  say,  sit  down  by  me  there, — always  supposing 
that  you  also,  for  your  part,  seem  happy  and  contented, — 
or  at  least  could  not  become  more  so  by  leaving  me.  But 
I  do  believe  you  will  be  happy. 

And  here  the  letter  comes !  See,  what  I  tell  you  does 
now  fill  my  life  with  gladness, — that,  the  counterpart  of 
that,  you  promise  me  shall  make  you  glad  too !  My  very 
own,  entirely  beloved  Ba,  there  is  no  exaggeration,  no  over- 
estimation — the  case  does  not  admit  of  any,  indeed !    If  a 


480  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  21 

man  tells  you  lie  owns  a  peerless  horse,  the  horse  may  go 
lame  and  the  estimation  sink  upon  that  experience — but  if 
I  think,  as  I  do,  that  the  Elgin  Horse  is  peerless  (despite 
his  ewe-neck)  nothing  further  can  touch  it,  nor  change  me. 
One  of  my  comparisons !  All  I  want  to  express  is,  that  I 
love  you,  dearest,  with  a  love  that  seems  to  separate  you 
from  your  very  qualities — the  essential  from  its  accidents. 
But  you  must  wait  to  know — wait  a  life,  perhaps. 

I  used  those  words  you  object  to — (in  your  true  way), 
because  you  shall  love  nothing  connected  with  me  for  con- 
ventional reasons — and  if  I  understated  the  amount  of  kind 
feeling  which  you  might  be  led  to  return  for  theirs,  be  as- 
sured that  I  also  expressed  in  the  simplest  and  coldest  terms 
possible  my  father  and  mother's  affection  for  you.  I  told 
you,  they  believe  me  .  .  therefore,  know  in  some  measure 
what  you  are  to  me.  They  are  both  entirely  affectionate  and 
generous.  My  father  is  tender-hearted  to  a  fault.  I  have 
never  known  much  more  of  those  circumstances  in  his  youth 
than  I  told  you,  in  consequence  of  his  invincible  repug- 
nance to  allude  to  the  matter — and  I  have  a  fancy,  to  ac- 
count for  some  peculiarities  in  him,  which  connects  them 
with  some  abominable  early  experience.  Thus, — if  you 
question  him  about  it,  he  shuts  his  eyes  involuntarily  and 
shows  exactly  the  same  marks  of  loathing  that  may  be 
noticed  while  a  piece  of  cruelty  is  mentioned  .  .  and  the 
word  '  blood, '  even,  makes  him  change  colour.  To  all 
women  and  children  lie  is  '  chivalrous '  .  .  as  you  called 
his  unworthy  son !  There  is  no  service  which  the  ugliest, 
oldest,  crossest  woman  in  the  world  might  not  exact  of 
him.  But  I  must  leave  off;  to-morrow  I  do  really  see  yon 
at  last,  dearest !     God  bless  you  ever  for  your  very  own  B. 

The  France-route  seems  in  nearly  every  way  the  best- 
perhaps  in  every  way — let  it  be  as  you  have  decided. 
Nothing  is  said  in  this  letter,  nothing  answered,  mind  .  . 
time  presses  so  I 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKKETT  481 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Night. 
[August  27,  1846.] 

Here  is  the  bad  news  going  to  you  as  fast  as  bad  news 
will  go !  for  you  '  do  really  (not)  see  me  to-morrow, '  Robert, 
— there  is  no  chance  of  it  for  such  '  too,  two  '  wise  people 
as  we  are !  In  the  first  place  Mr.  Kenyon  never  paid  his 
visit  to-day  and  will  do  it  to-morrow  instead ;  and  secondly, 
and  while  I  was  gloomily  musing  over  this  'great  fact,' 
arrives  the  tidings  of  my  uncle  and  aunt  Hedley's  being  at 
Fenton's  Hotel  for  two  days  from  this  evening  .  .  so  that 
not  only  Friday  perishes,  but  even  Saturday,  unless  there 
should  be  a  change  in  their  plans.  We  shall  have  them  here 
continually ;  and  there  would  neither  be  safety  nor  peace 
if  we  attempted  a  meeting.  So  let  us  take  patience,  dear- 
est beloved,  and  let  me  feel  you  loving  me  through  the  dis- 
tance. It  is  only  for  a  short  time,  to  bear  these  weeks 
without  our  days  in  them ;  and  presently  you  will  have  too 
much  of  me  perhaps, — ah,  the  ungrateful  creature,  who 
stops  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  thunderstruck  in  the 
tenderest  part  of  her  conscience !  So  instead,  I  go  on  to 
say  that  certainly  I  shall  be  happy  with  you,  as  long  as  my 
'  sitting  in  the  room  '  does  not  make  you  less  happy — cer- 
tainly I  shall  be  happy  with  you.  I  thought  once  that  the 
capacity  of  happiness  was  destroyed  in  me,  but  you  have 
made  it  over  again, — God  has  permitted  you !  And  while 
you  love  me  so  .  .  essentially,  as  you  describe,  and  apart 
from  supposed  and  supposititious  qualities,  .  .  I  will  take 
courage  and  hope,  and  believe  that  such  a  love  may  be 
enough  for  the  happiness  of  us  both — enough  for  yours 
even. 

Your  father  is  worthy  to  be  your  father,  let  you  call 
yourself  his  '  unworthy  son '  ever  so.  The  noblest  inherit- 
ance of  sons  is  to  have  such  thoughts  of  their  fathers,  as 
you  have  of  yours — the  privilege  of  such  thoughts,  the 
faith  in  such  virtues  and  the  gratitude  for  such  affection. 
Vol.  II.— 31 


482  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  I  August  27 

You  have  better  than  the  silver  or  the  gold,  and  you  can 
afford  to  leave  those  to  less  happy  sons.  And  your  mother 
■ — Scarcely  I  was  a  woman  when  I  lost  my  mother — dearest 
as  she  was,  and  very  tender,  (as  yours  even  could  be) ,  but 
of  a  nature  harrowed  up  into  some  furrows  by  the  pressure 
of  circumstances :  for  we  lost  more  in  her  than  she  lost 
in  life,  my  dear  dearest  mother.  A  sweet,  gentle  nature, 
which  the  thunder  a  little  turned  from  its  sweetness — as 
when  it  turns  milk.  One  of  those  women  who  never  can 
resist ;  but,  in  submitting  and  bowing  on  themselves,  make 
a  mark,  a  plait,  within, — a  sign  of  suffering.  Too  wom- 
anly she  was — it  was  her  only  fault.  Good,  good,  and 
dear — and  refined  too ! — she  would  have  admired  and  loved 
you,- — but  I  can  only  tell  you  so,  for  she  is  gone  past  us  all 
into  the  place  of  the  purer  spirits.  God  had  to  take  her, 
before  He  could  bless  her  enough. 

Now  I  shall  not  write  any  more  to-night.  You  had  my 
note  to-day — the  note  written  this  morning?  I  went  out  in 
the  carriage,  and  we  drove  to  one  or  two  shops  and  up  the 
Uxbridge  Koad,  and  I  was  utterly  dull.  Shall  I  not  really 
see  you  before  Monday?  It  seems  impossible  to  bear. 
Let  us  hope  at  any  rate,  for  Saturday. 

How  could  such  an  idea  enter  your  head,  pray,  as  that 
about  selling  your  copyrights?  That  would  have  been 
travelling  at  the  price  of  blood,  and  I  never  should  have 
agreed  to  it.  I  shall  be  able  to  bring  you  a  few  pennies, 
I  hope ;  only  it  would  not  be  enough  for  the  journey,  what 
/  could  bring,  under  the  circumstances  of  imprisonment. 
When  we  are  free,  we  ought  to  place  our  money  somewhere 
on  the  railroads,  where  the  percentage  will  be  better — ■ 
which  will  not  disturb  the  simplicity  of  our  way  of  life, 
you  know,  though  it  will  give  us  more  liberty  in  living. 

Now  I  expect  to  hear  your  decision  about  Mrs.  Jameson 
— I  expect  to  hear  from  you  of  yourself,  though,  most  and 
chiefest— tell  me  how  you  are,  and  how  your  mother  is. 
Dearest,  promise  me  not  to  say  to  your  family  any  foolish- 
ness about  me — remember  what  the  recoil  will  be,  and  un- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  483 

derstand  that  I  must  suffer  in  proportion  to  all  the  over- 
praises. It  quite  frightens  me  to  think  of  it !  And  then, 
again,  I  laugh  to  myself  at  your  excellent  logic  of  compari- 
son, between  Miss  Campbell  and  me ;  and  how  you  did  not 
care  for  walking  the  bazaars  and  looking  at  the  dolls  with 
her;  to  the  discredit  of  the  whole  class  of  Miss  Camp- 
bells .  .  whereas,  with  me  ! !  &c.  No  wonder  that  your 
father  should  give  you  books  of  logic  to  study,  books  on 
the  '  right  use  of  reason, '  if  you  do  not  understand  that  I 
am  not  better  than  she,  except  by  your  loving  me  better; 
that  the  cause  is  not  in  her  or  me,  but  in  you  only.  Can 
it  indeed  be  so  true  that  people,  when  they  love  other  peo- 
ple, never  see  them  at  all?  Yet  it  seems  to  me  that  I  see 
you  clearly,  discern  you  entirely  and  thoroughly — which 
makes  me  love  you  profoundly.  But  you  .  .  without  see- 
ing me  at  all,  you  love  me  .  .  which  does  as  well,  I  think 
— so  I  am  your  very  own. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  August  28,  1846.] 

I  was  beginning  to  dress,  hours  before  the  proper  time, 
through  the  confidence  of  seeing  you  now, — after  the  letter 
which  came  early  in  the  morning, — when  this  new  letter 
changes  everything.  It  just  strikes  me,  what  a  comfort  it 
is  that  whenever  such  a  disappointment  is  inevitable,  your 
hand  or  voice  announces  it,  and  not  another's — no  second 
person  bids  me  stay  away  for  good  reasons  I  must  take  in 
trust,  leaving  me  to  deal  with  the  innumerable  fancies  that 
arise — on  the  contrary,  you  contrive  that,  with  the  one 
misfortune,  twenty  kindnesses  shall  reach  me — can  I  be 
very  sorry  noiv,  for  instance,  that  you  tell  me  ivhy  it  is,  and 
how  it  affects  you  and  how  it  will  affect  me  in  the  end? 
Dear  Ba,  if  you  will  not  believe  in  the  immortality  of  love, 
do  think  the  poor  thought  that  when  love  shall  end,  grati- 
tude will  begin ! 


484  THE  LETTEKS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  28 

I  altogether  agree  with  you — it  is  best  to  keep  away — 
we  cannot  be  too  cautious  now  at  the  '  end  of  things. '  I 
am  prepared  for  difficulties  enough,  without  needing  to 
cause  them  by  any  rashness  or  wilfulness  of  my  own.  I 
really  expect,  for  example,  that  out  of  the  various  plans  of 
these  sympathising  friends  and  relations  some  one  will 
mature  itself  sufficiently  to  be  directly  proposed  to  you, 
for  your  acceptance  or  refusal  contingent  on  your  father's 
approbation;  the  shortness  of  the  remaining  travelling 
season  serving  to  compel  a  speedy  development.  Or  what 
if  your  father,  who  was  the  first  to  propose,  or  at  least  talk 
about,  a  voyage  to  Malta  or  elsewhere,  when  you  took  no 
interest  in  the  matter  comparatively,  and  who  perhaps 
chiefly  found  fault  with  last  year's  scheme  for  its  not 
originating  with  himself  .  .  what  if  he  should  again  de- 
termine on  some  such  voyage  now  that  you  are  apparently 
as  obedient  to  his  wishes  as  can  be  desired?  Would  it 
be  strange,  not  to  say  improbable,  if  he  tells  you  some 
fine  morning  that  your  passage  is  taken  to  Madeira,  or 
Palermo?  Because,  all  the  attempts  in  the  world  cannot 
hide  the  truth  from  the  mind,  any  more  than  all  five  fingers 
before  the  eyes  keep  out  the  sun  at  noon-day :  you  see  a 
red  through  them  all — and  your  father  must  see  your  im- 
proved health  and  strength,  and  divine  the  opinion  of 
everybody  round  him  as  to  the  simple  proper  course  for 
the  complete  restoration  of  them.  Therefore  be  prepared, 
my  own  Ba ! 

In  any  case — I  trust  in  you  wholly. 

There  is  nothing  to  decide  upon,  with  respect  to  Mrs. 
Jameson — the  reasons  for  not  sharing  that  confidence  with 
her  are  irrefragable.  I  only  thought  of  you,  dearest,  who 
have  to  bear  her  all  but  direct  enquiries.  You  know,  1 
undergo  nothing  of  the  kind.  Any  such  arrangement  aa 
that  of  taking  her  up  at  Orleans  would  be  very  practicable. 
I  rejoice  in  your  desire  (by  the  way)  of  going  rapidly  on, 
stopping  nowhere,  till  we  reach  our  appointed  place — be- 
cause that  spirit  helps  the  body  wonderfully — and,  in  this 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  485 

case,  exactly  corresponds  with  mine.  Above  all,  I  should 
hate  to  be  seen  at  Paris  by  anybody  a  few  days  only  after 
our  adventure — Chorley  will  be  there,  and  the  Arnoulds, — 
for  one  party ! 

What  could  it  be,  you  thought  should  make  you  c  sorry,' 
in  that  letter  of  yesterday,  love?  What  was  I  to  '  forgive'  ? 
Certainly  you  are  unforgiven  hitherto,  for  the  best  of 
reasons. 

And  assure  yourself,  dearest,  that  I  have  told  my  family 
nothing  that  can  possibly  mislead  them.  Remember  that 
I  have  the  advantage  of  knowing  those  I  speak  to, — their 
tastes  and  understandings,  and  notions  of  what  is  advan- 
tageous and  what  otherwise.  I  spoke  the  simple  truth 
about  your  heart — of  your  mind  they  knew  something 
already — I  explained  your  position  with  respect  to  your 
father  .  .  unfortunately,  a  very  few  plain  words  do  that 
.  .  I  mean,  a  few  facts,  such  as  the  parish  register  could 
supply  .  .  sufficiently  to  exonerate  you  and  me. 

As  to  my  copyrights,  I  never  meant  to  sell  them — it 
would  be  foolish — because,  since  some  little  time,  and  in 
consequence  of  the  establishment  of  the  fact  that  my 
poems,  even  in  their  present  disadvantageous  form,  with- 
out advertisement,  and  unnoticed  by  the  influential  journals 
■ — do  somehow  manage  to  pay  their  expenses,  I  have  had 
one  direct  offer  to  print  a  new  edition, — and  there  are 
reasons  for  thinking,  two  or  three  booksellers,  that  I  know, 
would  come  to  terms.  Smith  &  Elder,  for  instance,  wrote 
to  offer  to  print  any  poem  about  Italy,  in  any  form,  with 
any  amount  of  advertisements,  on  condition  of  sharing 
profits  .  .  taking  all  risk  off  my  hands  .  .  concluding 
with  more  than  a  hint  that  if  that  proposition  was  not  fa- 
vourable enough,  they  would  try  and  agree  to  any  reason- 
able demand. 

Because  Moxon  is  the  '  slowest '  of  publishers,  and  if 
one  of  his  books  can  only  contrive  to  pay  its  expenses,  you 
may  be  sure  that  a  more  enterprising  brother  of  the  craft 
would  have  sent  it  into  a  second  or  third  edition — yet 


486  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  28 

Moxon's  slow  self  even,  anticipates  success  for  the  next 
venture.  Now  the  fact  is,  not  having  really  cared  about 
anything  except  not  losing  too  much  money,  I  have  taken 
very  little  care  of  my  concerns  in  that  way — not  calling  on 
Moion  for  months  together.  But  all  will  be  different  now 
— and  I  shall  look  into  matters,  and  turn  my  experience  to 
account,  such  as  it  is. 

Well, — I  am  yours,  you  are  mine,  dearest  Ba!  I  love 
you,  I  think,  perceptibly  more  in  these  latter  days !  Is  this 
absence  contrived  on  purpose  to  prove  how  foolishly  I  said 
that  I  loved  you  the  more  from  seeing  you  the  oftener? 
Ah,  you  reconcile  all  extremes,  destroy  the  force  of  all 
logic-books,  my  father's  or  mine — that  was  true,  but  this 
is  also  true  (logical  or  no)  that  I  now  love  you  through  not 
seeing  you, — loving  more,  as  I  desire  more  to  be  with  you, 
my  best,  dearest  wife  that  will  be !  (/  could  not  help  writ- 
ing it — why  should  it  sound  sweeter  than  '  Ba '?) 

Your  very  own  R. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday  Evening. 
[Postmark,  August  29,  1846.] 

Will  you  come,  dearest,  after  all?  Judge  for  both  of 
us.  The  Hedleys  go  to-morrow  morning  and  we  shall  not 
see  them  after  to-night  when  they  are  dining  here — but  Mr. 
Kenyon  has  not  paid  his  visit,  and  may  come  to-morrow, 
or  may  take  Sunday,  which  he  is  fond  of  doing — is  it  worth 
while  to  be  afraid  of  Mr.  Kenyon?  What  do  you  think? 
I  leave  it  to  your  wisdom  which  is  the  greatest.  Perhaps 
he  may  not  come  till  Monday — yet  he  may. 

Dearest,  I  have  had  all  your  thoughts  by  turns,  or 
most  of  them  .  .  and  each  one  has  withered  away  without 
coming  to  bear  fruit.  Papa  seems  to  have  no  more  idea 
of  my  living  beyond  these  four  walls,  than  of  a  journey  to 
Lapland.  I  confess  that  I  thought  it  possible  he  might  pro- 
pose the  country  for  the  summer,  or  even  Italy  for  the 
winter,  in  a  '  late  remark  ' — but  no,  '  nothing  '  and  there  is 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  487 

not  a  possibility  of  either  word,  as  I  see  things.  My 
brothers  '  wish  that  something  could  be  arranged  ' — a  wish 
which  I  put  away  quietly  as  often  as  they  bring  it  to  me. 
And  for  my  uncle  and  aunt,  they  have  been  talking  to  me 
to-day — and  she  with  her  usual  acuteness  in  such  matters, 
observing  my  evasion,  said,  '  Ah  Ba,  you  have  arranged 
your  plans  more  than  you  would  have  us  believe.  But  you 
are  right  not  to  tell  us — indeed  I  would  rather  not  hear. 
Only  don't  be  rash — that  is  my  only  advice  to  you.' 

I  thought  she  had  touched  the  truth,  and  wondered — ■ 
but  since  then,  from  another  of  her  words,  I  came  to  con- 
clude that  she  imagined  me  about  to  accept  the  convoy  of 
Henrietta  and  Captain  Cook !  She  said  in  respect  to  them 
— '  I  only  say  that  your  father's  consent  ought  to  be  asked, 
as  a  form  of  respect  to  him. '  Which,  in  their  case  should 
be,  I  think — and  should  also  in  ours,  but  for  the  peculiar 
position  of  one  of  us.  My  uncle  urged  me  to  keep  firm  and 
go  to  Italy,  and  my  aunt,  though  she  would  not  advise, 
she  said,  yet  thought  that  I  '  ought  to  go, '  and  that  to  live 
on  in  this  fashion  in  this  room  was  lamentable  to  contem- 
plate. Both  of  them  approved  of  the  French  route,  and 
urged  me  to  go  to  them  in  Paris — '  And, '  said  my  uncle 
kindly,  '  when  once  we  have  you,  we  shall  not  bear  to  part 
with  you,  I  think. ' 

Do  you  really  imagine,  by  the  way,  that  to  appear  in 
Paris  for  one  half-minute,  to  a  single  soul,  could  be  less 
detestable  to  me  than  to  you?  I  shall  take  care  that  nobody 
belonging  to  me  there  shall  hear  of  my  being  within  a  hun- 
dred miles — and  why  need  we  stay  in  Paris  the  half  minute? 
Not  unless  you  pause  to  demand  an  audience  of  Mr. 
Chorley  at  the  Barriere  des  Etoiles. 

While  we  were  talking,  Papa  came  into  the  room.  My 
aumVsaid,  '  How  well  she  is  looking  ' — '  Do  you  think  so?  ' 
he  said.  '  Why,  do  not  you  think  so?  Do  you  pretend  to 
say  that  you  see  no  surprising  difference  in  her?  ' — '  Oh,  I 
don't  know,'  he  went  on  to  say.'  'She  is  mumpish,  I 
think. '     Mumpish ! 


488  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  29 

'  She  does  not  talk, '  resumed  he — 

'  Perhaps  she  is  nervous  ' — my  aunt  apologised — I  said 
not  one  word  .  .  When  birds  have  their  eyes  out,  they  are 
apt  to  be  mumpish. 

Mumpish !  The  expression  proved  a  displeasure.  Yet 
I  am  sure  that  I  have  shown  as  little  sullenness  as  was 
possible.  To  be  very  talkative  and  vivacious  under  such 
circumstances  as  those  of  mine,  would  argue  insensibility, 
and  was  certainly  beyond  my  power. 

I  told  her  gently  afterwards  that  she  had  been  wrong  in 
speaking  of  me  at  all — a  wrong  with  a  right  intention, — as 
all  her  wrongness  must  be.  She  was  very  sorry  to  have 
done  it,  she  said,  and  looked  sorry. 

Poor  Papa! — Presently  I  shall  be  worse  to  him  than 
'  mumpish  '  even.  But  then,  I  hope,  he  will  try  to  forgive 
me,  as  I  have  forgiven  him,  long  ago. 

My  own  beloved — do  you  know  that  your  letter  caught 
me  in  the  act  of  wondering  whether  the  absence  would  do 
me  harm  with  you,  according  to  that  memorable  theory. 
And  so  in  the  midst  came  the  solution  of  the  doubt — you 
do  not  love  me  less.  Nay,  you  love  me  more — ah,  but  if 
you  say  so,  I  am  capable  of  wishing  not  to  see  you  for  a 
month  added  to  the  week !  For  did  I  not  once  confess  to  you 
that  I  loved  your  love  as  much  as  I  loved  you  .  .  or  very, 
very,  very  nearly  as  much?  Not  precisely  so  much.  Con- 
fiteor  tibi — but  I  will  sing  a  penitential  psalm  low  to  myself 
and  do  the  act  of  penance  by  seeing  you  to-morrow  if  you 
choose  to  come, — and  then  you  shall  absolve  me  and  give 
me  the  Benedicite,  which,  if  you  come,  you  cannot  keep 
back,  because  it  comes  with  you  of  necessity. 

Not  a  word  of  your  head,  nor  of  your  mother !  You 
should  come  I  think,  to-morrow,  if  only  to  say  it.  Yet  let 
us  be  wise  to  the  end.  Be  you  wise  to  the  end,  and  decide 
between  Saturday  and  Monday.  And  I,  for  my  part, 
promise  to  go  to  Italy,  only  with  you — do  not  be  afraid. 

And  for  your  poetry,  I  believe  in  it  as  '  golden  water  ' — 
and  the  '  singing  tree '  does  not  hide  it  from  me  with  all 


1846J  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  489 

the  overcropping  branches  and  leaves.  In  fact,  the  chief 
inconvenience  we  are  likely  to  suffer  from,  in  the  way  of 
income,  is  the  having  too  much.  Don't  you  think  so?  But 
in  that  case,  we  will  buy  an  island  of  our  own  in  one  of 
those  purple  seas,  and  inherit  the  sun — or  perhaps  the 
shadow  .  .  of  Calypso's  cave. 

So  do  not  be  uneasy,  dearest ! — not  even  lest  I  should 
wish  to  spend  three  weeks  in  Paris,  to  show  myself  at  the 
Champs  Ely  sees  and  the  opera,  and  gather  a  little  glory 
after  what  you  happily  call  '  our  adventure.' 

Our  adventure,  indeed !  But  it  is  you  who  are  adven- 
turing in  the  matter,— and  as  any  Red  Cross  Knight  of 
them  all,  whom  you  exceed  in  their  chivalry  proper. 

Chiappino  little  knew  how  right  he  was,  when  he  used 
to  taunt  me  with  my  '  New  Cross  Knight. '  He  did — Ah ! 
Even  if  he  had  talked  of  '  Rosie  Cross, '  he  would  not  have 
been  so  far  wide — the  magic  '  saute  aux  yeaux. ' 

And  now,  will  you  come  to-morrow,  I  wonder,  or  not? 
The  answer  is  in  you. 

And  I  am  your  own,  ever  and  as  ever ! 

And  you  thought  I  was  dying  with  a  desire  to  tell  Mrs. 
Jameson ! ! — II 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  August  31,  1846.  ] 

I  have  just  come  from  the  vestry  of  Paddington  chapel, 
and  bore  it  very  well,  and  saw  nobody  except  one  woman. 
Arabel  went  with  me,  and  during  the  singing  we  escaped 
and  stood  outside  the  door.  Now,  that  is  over;  and  the 
next  time  I  shall  care  less.  It  was  a  rambling  sermon, 
which  I  could  hear  distinctly  through  the  open  door,  quite 
wanting  in  coherence,  but  with  good  and  touching  things 
in  it,  the  more  touching  that  they  came  from  a  preacher 
whose  life  is  known  to  us — from  Mr.  Stratton,  for  whom  I 
have  the  greatest  respect,  though  he  never  looked  into 
Shakespeare  till  he  was  fifty,  and  shut  the  book  quickly, 


490  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  31 

perhaps,  afterward.  He  is  the  very  ideal  of  his  class ;  and, 
with  some  of  the  narrow  views  peculiar  to  it,  has  a  heart  of 
miraculous  breadth  and  depth ;  loving  further  than  he  can 
see,  pitying  beyond  what  he  can  approve,  having  in  him  a 
divine  Christian  spirit,  the  '  love  of  love  '  in  the  most  ex- 
pansive form.  How  that  man  is  beloved  by  his  congrega- 
tion, the  members  of  his  church,  by  his  children,  his 
friends,  is  wonderful  to  see — for  everybody  seems  to  love 
him.  from  ajar,  as  a  man  is  loved  who  is  of  a  purer  nature 
than  others.  There  is  that  reverence  in  the  love — and  yet 
no  fear.  His  children  have  been  encouraged  and  instructed 
to  speak  aloud  before  him  on  religion  and  other  subjects 
in  all  freedom  of  conscience — he  turns  to  his  little  daughter 
seriously  {  to  hear  what  she  thinks. '  The  other  day  his 
eldest  son,  whom  he  had  hoped  to  see  succeed  him  at  Pad- 
dington,  determined  to  enter  the  Church  of  England :  his 
wife  became  quite  ill  with  grief  about  it,  and  to  himself 
perhaps  it  was  a  trial,  a  disappointment.  With  the  utmost 
gentleness  and  tenderness  however,  he  desired  him  to  take 
time  for  thought  and  act  according  to  his  conscience. — I 
believe  for  my  part  that  there  never  was  a  holier  man  .  . 
'  except  those  bonds  '  .  .  never  a  man  who  more  resolutely 
trod  under  his  feet  every  form  of  evil  and  selfish  passion 
when  it  was  once  recognized — and  looked  to  God  and  the 
Truth  with  a  direct  aspiration.  Once  I  could  not  help 
writing  to  put  our  affairs  into  his  hands  to  settle  them  for 
us — but  that  would  be  wrong — because  Papa  would  forbid 
Arabel's  going  to  the  chapel  or  communicating  with  his 
family,  and  it  would  be  depriving  her  of  a  comfort  she 
holds  dear — oh  no.  And  besides,  you  are  wise  in  taking 
the  other  view. 

Think  of  our  waiting  day  after  day  to  fall  into  the  net 
so,  yesterday  !  How  I  was  provoked  and  vexed — but  more 
for  you,  dearest  dearest,  than  for  me — much  more  for  you. 
As  for  me  I  saw  you,  which  was  joy  enough,  let  the  hours 
be  ever  so  clipped  of  their  natural  proportions — and  then, 
you  know,  you  were  obliged  to  go  soon,  whether  Mr.  Ken- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  491 

yon  had  come  or  not  come.  After  you  were  gone,  nothing 
was  said,  and  nothing  asked,  and  it  is  delightful  to  have 
heard  of  those  intended  absences  one  after  another  till  far 
into  October :  which  will  secure  us  from  future  embarrass- 
ments. See  if  he  means  to  put  us  to  the  question ! — not 
such  a  thing  is  in  his  thoughts. 

And  I  said  what  you  '  would  not  have  believed  of  me ' ! 
Have  you  forgiven  me,  beloved — for  saying  what  you 
would  not  have  believed  of  me, — understanding  that  I  did 
not  mean  it  very  seriously,  though  I  proved  to  be  capable 
of  saying  it?  Seriously,  I  don't  want  to  make  unnecessary 
delays.  It  is  a  horrible  position,  however  I  may  cover  it 
with  your  roses  and  the  thoughts  of  you — and  far  worse  to 
myself  than  to  you,  inasmuch  that  what  is  painful  to  you 
once  a  week,  is  to  me  so  continually.  To  hear  the  voice  of 
my  father  and  meet  his  eye  makes  me  shrink  back — to 
talk  to  my  brothers  leaves  my  nerves  all  trembling  .  .  and 
even  to  receive  the  sympathy  of  my  sisters  turns  into 
sorrow  and  fear,  lest  they  should  suffer  through  their  affec- 
tion for  me.  How  I  can  look  and  sleep  as  well  as  I  do,  is 
a  miracle  exactly  like  the  rest — or  would  be,  if  the  love 
were  not  the  deepest  and  strongest  thing  of  all,  and  did  not 
hold  and  possess  me  overcomingly.  I  feel  myself  to  be 
yours  notwithstanding  every  other  influence,  and  being 
yours,  cannot  but  be  happy  by  you.  Ah — let  people  talk 
as  they  please  of  the  happiness  of  early  youth!  Mrs. 
Jameson  did,  the  other  day,  when  she  wished  kindly  to 
take  her  young  niece  with  her  to  the  Continent,  that  she 
might  enjoy  what  in  a  few  years  she  could  not  so  much 
enjoy.  There  is  a  sort  of  blind  joy  common  perhaps  to 
such  times — a  blind  joy  which  blunts  itself  with  its  own 
leaps  and  bounds ;  peculiar  to  a  time  of  comparative  igno- 
rance and  inexperience  of  evil : — but  I  for  my  part,  with  all 
the  capacity  for  happiness  which  I  had  from  the  beginning, 
I  look  back  and  listen  to  my  whole  life,  and  feel  sure  of 
what  I  have  already  told  you,  .  .  that  I  am  happier  now 
than  1  ever  was  before  .   .  infinitely  happier  now,  through 


492  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  31 

you  .  infinitely  happier;  even  now  in  this  position  I 
have  just  called  '  horrible. '  When  I  hear  you  say  for 
instance,  that  you  '  love  me  perceptibly  more '  .  .  why  I 
cannot,  cannot  be  more  happy  than  when  I  hear  you  say 
that— going  to  Italy  seems  nothing !  a  vulgar  walk  to  Prim- 
rose Hill  after  being  caught  up  to  the  third  Heaven !  I 
think  nothing  of  Italy  now,  though  I  shall  enjoy  it  of 
course  when  the  time  comes.  I  think  only  that  you  love 
me,  that  you  are  the  angel  of  my  life, — and  for  the  despair 
and  desolation  behind  me,  they  serve  to  mark  the  hour  of 
your  coming, — and  they  are  behind,  as  Italy  is  before. 
Never  can  you  feel  for  me,  Kobert,  as  I  feel  for  you  .  .  it 
is  not  possible  of  course.  I  am  yours  in  a  way  and  degree 
which  the  tenderest  of  other  women  could  not  be  at  her 
will.  Which  you  know.  Why  should  I  repeat  it  to  you? 
Why,  except  that  is  a  reason  to  prove  that  we  cannot,  as 
you  say,  'ever  be  a  common  wife  and  husband.'  But  I 
don't  think  I  was  intending  to  give  proofs  of  that — no,  in- 
deed. 

To-morrow  I  shall  hear  from  you.  Say  how  your 
mother  is,  in  the  second  letter  if  you  do  not  in  the  first. 
May  God  bless  you  and  keep  you,  dearest  beloved — 

Your  very  own  Ba. 

There  is  not  much  in  the  article  by  Mr.  Chorley,  but  it 
is  right  and  kind  as  far  as  it  goes. 


R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  31,  1846.  J 

I  wonder  what  I  shall  write  to  you,  Ba — I  could  sup- 
press my  feelings  here,  as  I  do  on  other  points,  and  say 
nothing  of  the  hatefulness  of  this  state  of  things  which  is 
prolonged  so  uselessly.  There  is  the  point — show  me  one 
good  reason,  or  show  of  reason,  why  we  gain  anything  by 
deferring  our  departure  till  next  week  instead  of  to-morrow. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  493 

and  I  will  bear  to  perform  yesterday's  part  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  Mr.  Kenyon  a  dozen  times  over  without  complaint. 
But  if  the  cold  plunge  must  be  taken,  all  this  shivering  de- 
lay on  the  bank  is  hurtful  as  well  as  fruitless.  I  do  under- 
stand your  anxieties,  dearest — I  take  your  fears  and  make 
them  mine,  while  I  put  my  own  natural  feeling  of  quite 
another  kind  away  from  us  both,  succeeding  in  that  beyond 
all  expectation.  There  is  no  amount  of  patience  or  suffer- 
ing I  would  not  undergo  to  relieve  you  from  these  appre- 
hensions. But  if,  on  the  whole,  you  really  determine  to 
act  as  we  propose  in  spite  of  them, — why,  a  new  leaf  is 
turned  over  in  our  journal,  an  old  part  of  our  adventure 
done  with,  and  a  new  one  entered  upon,  altogether  distinct 
from  the  other.  Having  once  decided  to  go  to  Italy  with 
me,  the  next  thing  to  decide  is  on  the  best  means  of  going 
— or  rather,  there  is  just  this  connection  between  the  two 
measures,  that  by  the  success  or  failure  of  the  last,  the 
first  will  have  to  be  justified  or  condemned.  You  tell  me 
you  have  decided  to  go — then,  dearest,  you  will  be  pre- 
pared to  go  earlier  than  you  promised  yesterday — by  the 
end  of  September  at  very  latest.  In  proportion  to  the  too 
probable  excitement  and  painful  circumstances  of  the  de- 
parture, the  greater  amount  of  advantages  should  be  secured 
for  the  departure  itself.  How  can  I  take  you  away  in  even 
the  beginning  of  October?  We  shall  be  a  fortnight  on  the 
journey — with  the  year,  as  everybody  sees  and  says,  a  full 
month  in  advance  .  .  cold  mornings  and  dark  evenings 
already.  Everybody  would  cry  out  on  such  folly  when  it 
was  found  that  we  let  the  favorable  weather  escape,  in  full 
assurance  that  the  Autumn  would  come  to  us  unattended 
by  any  one  beneficial  circumstance. 

My  own  dearest,  I  am  wholly  your  own,  for  ever,  and 
under  every  determination  of  yours.  If  you  find  yourself 
unable,  or  unwilling  to  make  this  effort,  tell  me  so  and 
plainly  and  at  once — I  will  not  offer  a  word  in  objection, — 
I  will  continue  our  present  life,  if  you  please,  so  far  as  may 
be  desirable,  and  wait  till  next  autumn,  and  the  next  and 


494  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  31 

the  next,  till  providence  end  our  waiting.  It  is  clearly  not 
for  me  to  pretend  to  instruct  you  in  your  duties  to  God  and 
yourself;  .  .  enough,  that  I  have  long  ago  chosen  to  accept 
your  decision.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  leave  England  now,  you  will  be  prepared  by  the 
end  of  September. 

I  should  think  myself  the  most  unworthy  of  human 
beings  if  I  could  employ  any  arguments  with  the  remotest 
show  of  a  tendency  to  frighten  you  into  a  compliance  with 
any  scheme  of  mine.  Those  methods  are  for  people  in 
another  relation  to  you.  But  you  love  me,  and,  at  lowest, 
shall  I  say,  wish  me  well — and  the  fact  is  too  obvious  for 
me  to  commit  any  indelicacy  in  reminding  you,  that  in  any 
dreadful  event  to  our  journey  of  which  I  could  accuse  my- 
self as  the  cause, — as  of  this  undertaking  to  travel  with 
you  in  the  worst  time  of  year  when  I  could  have  taken 
the  best, — in  the  case  of  your  health  being  irretrievably 
shaken,  for  instance  .  .  the  happiest  fate  I  should  pray 
for  would  be  to  live  and  die  in  some  corner  where  I  might 
never  hear  a  word  of  the  English  language,  much  less  a 
comment  in  it  on  my  own  wretched  imbecility, — to  disap- 
pear and  be  forgotten. 

So  that  must  not  be,  for  all  our  sakes.  My  family  will 
give  me  to  you  that  we  may  be  both  of  us  happy  .  .  but 
for  such  an  end — no ! 

Dearest,  do  you  think  all  this  earnestness  foolish  and 
uncalled  for? — that  I  might  know  you  spoke  yesterday  in 
mere  jest, — as  yourself  said,  '  only  to  hear  what  I  would 
say  '  ?  Ah  but  consider,  my  own  Ba,  the  way  of  our  life,  as 
it  is,  and  is  to  be — a  word,  a  simple  word  from  you,  is  not 
as  a  word  is  counted  in  the  world — the  word  between  us  is 
different — I  am  guided  by  your  will,  which  a  word  shall 
signify  to  me.  Consider  that  just  such  a  word,  so  spoken, 
even  with  that  lightness,  would  make  me  lay  my  life  at 
your  feet  at  any  minute.  Should  we  gain  any  thing  by  my 
trying,  if  I  could,  to  deaden  the  sense  of  hearing,  dull  the 
medium  of  communication  between  us ;  and  procuring  that, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  495 

instead  of  this  prompt  rising  of  my  will  at  the  first  intima- 
tion from  yours,  the  same  effect  should  only  follow  after 
fifty  speeches,  and  as  many  protestations  of  complete  seri- 
ous desire  for  their  success  on  your  part,  accompanied  by 
all  kinds  of  acts  and  deeds  and  other  evidences  of  the  same? 

At  all  events,  God  knows  I  have  said  this  in  the  deepest, 
truest  love  of  you.  I  will  say  no  more,  praying  you  to 
forgive  whatever  you  shall  judge  to  need  forgiveness  here, 
— dearest  Ba!  I  will  also  say,  if  that  may  help  me, — and 
what  otherwise  I  might  not  have  said, — that  I  am  not  too 
well  this  morning,  and  write  with  an  aching  head.  My 
mother's  suffering  continues  too. 

My  friend  Pritchard  tells  me  that  Brighton  is  not  to  be 
thought  of  under  ordinary  circumstances  as  a  point  of  de- 
parture for  Havre.  Its  one  packet  a  week  from  Shoreham 
cannot  get  in  if  the  wind  and  tide  are  unfavourable.  There 
is  the  greatest  uncertainty  in  consequence  .  .  as  I  have 
heard  before — while,  of  course,  from  Southampton,  the 
departures  are  calculated  punctually.  He  considers  that 
the  least  troublesome  plan,  and  the  cheapest,  is  to  go  from 
London  to  Havre  .  .  the  voyage  being  so  arranged  that 
the  river  passage  takes  up  the  day  and  the  sea-crossing 
the  night — you  reach  Havre  early  in  the  morning  and  get 
to  Paris  by  four  o'clock,  perhaps,  in  the  afternoon  .  .  in 
time  to  leave  for  Orleans  and  spend  the  night  there,  I  sup- 
pose. 

Do  I  make  myself  particularly  remarkable  for  silliness 
when  confronted  by  our  friend  as  yesterday?  And  the 
shortest  visit, — and  comments  of  everybody.  Oh,  Mr. 
Hunter,  methinks  you  should  be  of  some  use  to  me  with 
those  amiable  peculiarities  of  yours,  if  you  would  just  dye 
your  hair  black,  take  a  stick  in  your  hand,  sink  the  cleri- 
cal character  you  do  such  credit  to,  and  have  the  goodness 
just  to  deliver  yourself  of  one  such  epithet  as  that  pleasant 
one,  the  next  time  you  find  me  on  the  steps  of  No.  50,  with 
Mr.  Kenyon  somewhere  higher  up  in  the  building.  It  is 
delectable  work,  this  having  to  do  with  relatives  and  '  free- 


496  THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [August  31 

men  who  have  a  right  to  beat  their  own  negroes,'  and 
father  Zeus  with  his  paternal  epistles,  and  peggings  to  the 
rock,  and  immense  indignation  at  '  this  marriage  you  talk 
of  '  which  is  to  release  his  victim.     Is  Mr.  Kenyon  Hermes? 

~ElaeWe:To)  as  jitjitoO'  ug  kyu  Aibg 
yvufirjv  tyofirjOeig  Qifkvvovq  yzvrjaouai, 
nal  /iiTtapyao)  tov  fieya  GTvyov/uevov 
ywaiKouifLOLq  imTLaafiaaiv  %£puv, 
T^vaai  /he  Seo/huv  ravde  •  tov  Travrbc  Jew. 
Chorus  of  Aunts  :  rjfuv  /uev  'Ep//i7f  ova  anaipa  tyaiverai 
teyecv,   k.  t.  A.1 

Well,  bless  you  in  any  case — 

Your  own  B. 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  August  31,  1846.] 

Here  is  dearest  Ba's  dearest  letter,  because  the  latest, 
and  it  is  one  of  her  very  kisses  incorporated  and  made 
manifest — so  perfectly  kind !  And  should  this  make  me 
ashamed  of  perhaps  an  over-earnestness  in  what  I  wrote 
yesterday?  or  not  rather  justify  me  to  myself  and  to  her — ■ 
since  it  was  on  a  passing  fear  of  losing  what  I  hold  so  infi- 
nitely precious,  that  the  earnestness  happened !  My  own 
Ba,  you  lap  me  over  with  love  upon  love  .  .  there  is  my 
first  and  proper  love,  independent  of  any  return,  and  there 
is  this  return  for  what  would  reward  itself.  Do  think  how 
I  must  feel  at  the  most  transient  suggestion  of  failure,  and 
parting,  and  an  end  to  all !    You  cannot  expect  I  can  lie 

1  ['  Oh,  think  no  more 

That  I,  fear-struck  by  Zeus  to  a  woman's  mind 
Will  supplicate  him,  loathed  as  he  is, 
With  feminine  upliftings  of  my  hands, 
To  break  these  chains.     Far  from  me  be  the  thought ! 
Chorus.  Our  Hermes  suits  his  reasons  to  the  times ; 
At  least  I  think  so. ' 

JEschylus,  Prometheus,  1002-6,  1036-7.  J 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  497 

quietly  and  let  my  life  of  life  be  touched.  And  ever,  dear- 
est, through  the  life  which  I  trust  is  about  to  be  permitted 
us, — ever  I  shall  remember  where  my  treasure  is,  and  turn 
as  vigilantly  when  it  is  approached.  Beside,  I  was  not 
very  well,  as  I  told  3rou  in  excuse- — I  am  much  better  now. 
Not  that,  upon  reconsideration,  I  can  alter  my  opinion  on 
the  proper  course  to  take.  We  know  all  the  miracles 
wrought  in  our  favour  hitherto  .  .  are  not  the  chances 
(speaking  in  that  foolish  way)  against  our  expecting  more? 
To-day  is  fine,  sunny  and  warm,  for  instance,  and  looks  as 
if  cold  weather  were  a  long  way  off — but  what  are  these 
fancies  and  appearances  when  weighed  against  the  other 
possibility  of  a  sudden  fall  of  the  year?  By  six  months 
more  of  days  like  this  we  should  gain  nothing,  nothing  in 
the  world,  you  confess — by  the  other  misfortune  we  lose 
everything  perhaps. 

Will  you  have  a  homely  illustration?  There  is  a  tree 
against  our  wall  here  which  produced  weeks  ago  a  gigantic 
apple — which  my  mother  had  set  her  heart  on  showing  a 
cousin  of  mine  who  is  learned  in  fruits  and  trees.  I  told 
her,  '  You  had  better  pluck  it  at  once — it  will  fall  and  be 
spoiled. '  She  thought  the  next  day  or  two  would  do  its 
cheeks  good,  — just  the  next — so  there  it  continued  to  hang 
till  this  morniDg,  when  she  was  about  to  go  out  with  my 
sister— I  said  '  now  is  the  time — you  are  going  to  my  aunt's 
— let  me  pluck  you  the  apple ' — '  Oh, '  she  said  '  I  have  been 
looking  at  it,  trying  it, — it  hangs  so  firmly,  .  .  not  this 
time,  thank  you ! '  So  she  went  without  it,  two  hours  ago 
— and  just  now,  I  turned  to  the  tree  with  a  boding  presenti- 
ment— there  lay  our  glory,  bruised  in  the  dirt,  a  sad  wreck ! 
'  Comfort  me  with  apples,  for  I  am  sick  of  love ! '  Rather, 
counsel  me  through  apples !     Do  you  see  the  counsel? 

Come,  let  me  not  be  so  ungrateful  to  the  letter,  to  what 
you  have  done  for  me,  as  only  to  speak  of  what  you  are 
disinclined  to  do.  I  am  very  glad  you  succeeded  in  going 
to  the  chapel,  and  that  the  result  was  so  favourable — see 
how  the  dangers  disappear  when  one  faces  them !  And 
Vol.  II.— 33 


498  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWKIKG  [August  81 

the  account  of  Mr.  Stratten  is  very  interesting,  too — besides 
characteristic — do  you  see  how  ?  Find  as  great  a  saint  as 
the  world  holds,  who  shall  be  acknowledged  to  be  utterly 
disinterested,  unbiassed  by  anything  except  truth  and  com- 
mon justice, — a  man  of  sense  as  well  as  piety — and  suc- 
ceed in  convincing  such  an  one  of  our  right  to  do  as  we 
purpose, — and  then— let  him  lay  the  matter  before  your 
father !  To  no  other  use  than  to  exasperate  him  against 
Mr.  Stratten,  deprive  your  sister  of  the  privilege  of  see- 
ing his  family,  and  bring  about  a  little  more  pain  and 
trouble ! 

Let  me  think  of  something  else  .  .  of  the  happiness  you 
profess  to  feel— which  it  makes  me  entirely  happy  to  know. 
I  will  not  try  and  put  away  the  crown  you  give  me.  I  just 
say  the  obvious  truth,  .  .  even  what  I  can  do  to  make  you 
happy,  according  to  my  ability,  has  yet  to  be  experienced 
by  you  .  .  if  my  thoughts  and  wishes  reach  you  with  any 
effect  at  present,  they  will  operate  freelier  when  the  ob- 
struction is  removed  .  .  that  is  only  natural.  I  shall  live 
for  you,  for  every  minute  in  your  life.  May  God  bless  me 
with  such  a  life,  as  that  it  may  be  of  use  to  you  .  .  yours 
it  must  be  whether  of  use  or  not,  for  I  am  wholly  your  B. 

Here  comes  my  mother  back  .  .  she  is  a  little  better 
to-day.  I  am  much  better  as  I  said.  And  you?  Let  me 
get  the  kiss  I  lost  on  Saturday !  (I  dined  at  Arnould's 
yesterday  with  Chorley  and  his  brother,  and  the  Oush- 
mans.)     Chorley  goes  to-night  to  Ostend. 


E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday  Night. 
[Post-mark,  September  1,  1846.] 

Tou  are  better,  dearest, — and  so  I  will  confess  to  having 
felt  a  little  inclined  to  reproach  you  gently  for  the  earlier 
letter,  except  that  you  were  not  well  when  you  wrote  it. 
That  you  should  endure  painfully  and  impatiently  a  posi- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  499 

tion  unworthy  of  you,  is  the  natural  consequence  of  the 
unworthiness — and  I  do  hold  that  you  would  be  justified 
at  this  moment,  on  the  barest  motives  of  self-respect,  in 
abandoning  the  whole  ground  and  leaving  me  to  Mr.  Ken- 
yon  and  others.  What  I  might  complain  of,  is  another 
thing — what  I  might  complain  of  is,  that  I  have  not  given 
you  reason  to  doubt  me  or  my  inclination  to  accede  to  any 
serious  wish  of  yours  relating  to  the  step  before  us.  On 
the  contrary  I  told  you  in  so  many  words  in  July,  that,  if 
you  really  wished  to  go  in  August  rather  than  in  Septem- 
ber, I  would  make  no  difficulty — to  which  you  answered, 
remember,  that  October  or  November  ivould  do  as  ivell.  Now 
is  it  fair,  ever  dearest,  that  you  should  turn  round  on  me 
so  quickly,  and  call  in  question  my  willingness  to  keep  my 
engagement  for  years,  if  ever?  Can  I  help  it,  if  the  cir- 
cumstances around  us  are  painful  to  both  of  us  ?  Did  I 
not  keep  repeating,  from  the  beginning,  that  they  must  be 
painful?  Only  yr>n  could  not  believe,  you  see,  until  you 
felt  the  pricks.  And  when  all  is  done,  and  the  doing  shall 
be  the  occasion  of  new  affronts,  sarcasms,  every  form  of 
injustice,  will  you  be  any  happier  then,  than  you  are  now 
that  you  only  imagine  the  possibility  of  them?  I  tremble 
to  answer  that  question — even  to  myself —  !  As  for  myself, 
though  I  cannot  help  feeling  pain  and  fear,  in  encountering 
what  is  to  be  encountered,  and  though  I  sometimes  fear,  in 
addition,  for  you,  lest  you  should  overtask  your  serenity  in 
bearing  your  own  part  in  it,  .  .  yet  certainly  I  have  never 
wavered  for  a  moment  from  the  decision  on  which  all 
depends.  I  might  fill  up  your  quotations  from  '  Prome- 
theus, '  and  say  how  no  evil  takes  me  unaware,  having  fore- 
seen all  from  the  beginning — but  I  have  not  the  heart  for 
filling  up  quotations.  I  [mean  to  say  only,  that  I  never 
wavered  from  the  promise  I  gave  freely ;  and  that  I  will 
keep  it  freely  at  any  time  you  choose — that  is,  within  a 
week  of  any  time  you  choose.  As  to  a  light  word  .  .  . 
why  now,  dear,  judge  me  in  justice !  If  I  had  written  it, 
there  might  have  been  more  wrong  in  it — but  I  spoke  it 


500   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Sept.  1 

lightly  to  show  it  was  light,  and  in  the  next  breath  I  told 
you  that  it  was  a  jest.  Will  you  not  forgive  me  a  word  so 
spoken,  Eobert?  will  you  rather  set  it  against  me  as  if 
habitually  I  threw  to  you  levities  in  change  for  earnest 
devotion? — you  imply  that  of  me.  Or  you  seem  to  imply 
it — you  did  not  mean,  you  could  not,  a  thought  approach- 
ing to  unkindness, — but  it  looks  like  that  in  the  letter,  or 
did,  this  morning.  And  all  the  time,  you  pretended  not  to 
know  very  well,  .  .  (dearest !)  .  .  that  what  you  made  up 
your  mind  to  wish  and  ask  of  me,  I  had  not  in  my  power  to 
say  '  no  '  to.  Ah,  you  knew  that  you  had  only  to  make  up 
your  mind,  and  to  see  that  the  thing  was  possible.  So  if 
September  shall  be  possible,  let  it  be  September.  I  do  not 
object  nor  hold  back.  To  sail  from  the  Thames  has  not 
the  feasibility — and  listen  why  !  All  the  sailing  or  rather 
steaming  from  London  begins  early ;  and  I  told  you  how 
out  of  the  question  it  was,  for  me  to  leave  this  house  early. 
I  could  not,  without  involving  my  sisters.  Arabel  sleeps 
in  my  room,  on  the  sofa,  and  is  seldom  out  of  the  room 
before  nine  in  the  morning — and  for  me  to  draw  her  into  a 
ruinous  confidence,  or  to  escape  without  a  confidence  at 
that  hour,  would  be  equally  impossible.  Now  see  if  it  is 
my  fancy,  my  whim !  And  as  for  the  expenses,  they  are  as 
nearly  equal  as  a  shilling  and  two  sixpences  can  be — the 
expense  of  the  sea-voyage  from  London  to  Havre,  and  of 
the  land  and  sea  voyage,  through  Southampton  .  .  or 
Brighton.  But  of  course  what  you  say  of  Brighton,  keeps 
us  to  Southampton,  of  those  two  routes.  We  can  go  to 
Southampton  and  meet  the  packet  .  .  take  the  river- 
steamer  to  Bouen,  and  proceed  as  rapidly  as  your  pro- 
gramme shows.  You  are  not  angry  with  me,  dearest,  dear- 
est?   I  did  not  mean  any  harm. 

May  God  bless  you  always.  I  am  not  angry  either, 
understand,  though  I  did  think  this  morning  that  you  were 
a  little  hard  on  me,  just  when  I  felt  myself  ready  to  give 
up  the  whole  world  for  you  at  the  holding  up  of  a  finger. 
And  now  say  nothing  of  this.     I  kiss  the  end  of  the  dear 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  501 

finger ;  and  when  it  is  ready,  I  am  ready ;  I  will  not  be 
reproached  again.     Being  too  much  your  own,  very  own 

Ba. 

Tell  me  that  you  keep  better.     And  your  mother? 


B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Tuesday — 3  p.m. 
[Post-mark,  September  1,  1846.] 

Dearest,  when  your  letter  kept  away,  all  this  morning, 
I  never  once  fancied  you  might  be  angry  .  .  I  knew  you 
must  feel  the  love  which  produced  the  fear.  And  I  will 
lay  to  my  heart  the  little,  gentlest  blame  that  there  is,  in 
the  spirit  which  dictated  it.  I  know,  my  own  Ba,  your 
words  have  given  me  the  right  to  doubt  nothing  from  your 
generosity — but  it  is  not  the  mere  bidding  .  .  no,  at  the 
thousandth  repetition — which  can  make  me  help  myself  to 
all  that  treasure  which  you  please  to  call  mine :  I  shall 
perhaps  get  used  to  the  generosity  and  readier  to  profit 
by  it. 

I  have  not  time  to  write  much ;  all  is  divinely  kind  of 
you,  and  I  love  you  for  forgiving  me. 

You  could  not  leave  at  an  early  hour  under  those  cir- 
cumstances .  .  the  moment  I  become  aware  of  them,  I  fully 
see  that. 

Ah,  but,  Ba,  am  I  so  to  blame  for  not  taking  your  dia- 
monds, while  you  disclaim  a  right  over  my  pebbles  even? 
May  I  '  withdraw  from  the  business  '?  &c,  <fec. 

Kiss  me,  and  do  not  say  that  again — and  I  will  say  you 
are  '  my  own,'  as  I  always  say, — my  very  own! 

As  for  '  sarcasms  '  and  the  rest — I  shall  hardly  do  other 
than  despise  what  will  never  be  said  to  me,  for  the  best  of 
reasons — except  where  is  to  be  exception.  I  never  objected 
to  such  miserable  work  as  that — and  the  other  day,  my 
annoy  ance  was  not  at  anything  which  might  be  fancied,  by 
l&r.  Kenyon  or  anybody  else,  but  at  what  could  not  but  b§ 


502   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Sept.  1 

plainly  seen — it  was  a  fact,  and  not  a  fancy,  that  our  visit 
was  shortened  &c,  &c. 

All  which  is  foolish  to  think  of — I  will  think  of  you  and 
a  better  time. 

You  do  not  tell  me  how  you  are,  Ba — and  I  left  you 
with  a  headache.  Will  you  tell  me?  And  the  post  may 
come  in  earlier  to-morrow, — at  all  events  I  will  write  at 
length  .  .  not  in  this  haste.  And  our  day  ?  When  before 
have  I  been  without  a  day,  a  fixed  day,  to  look  forward  to? 
Bless  you,  my  dearest  beloved — 

Your  own  It. 

I  am  pretty  well  to-day — not  too  well.     My  mother  is 
no  better  than  usual ;  we  blame  the  wind,  with  or  without 
reason.     See  this  scrawl !     Could  anything  make  me  write 
legibly,  I  wonder? 
Ba. 

Ba. 

fia. 
Ba,  Ba,  Ba. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  September  2,  1846.  ] 

Here  is  a  distress  for  me,  dearest !  I  have  lost  my  poor 
Flush — lost  him!  You  were  a  prophet  when  you  said 
'  Take  care. ' 

This  morning  Arabel  and  I,  and  he  with  us,  went  in  a 
cab  to  Vere  Street  where  we  had  a  little  business,  and  he 
followed  us  as  usual  into  a  shop  and  out  of  it  again,  and 
was  at  my  heels  when  I  stepped  up  into  the  carriage. 
Having  turned,  I  said  '  Flush, '  and  Arabel  looked  round 
for  Flush — there  was  no  Flush !  He  had  been  caught  up 
in  that  moment,  from  under  the  wheels,  do  you  understand? 
and  the  thief  must  have  run  with  him  and  thrown  him  into 
a  bag  perhaps.  It  was  such  a  shock  to  me — think  of  it ! 
losing  him  in  a  moment,  so  I    No  wonder  if  I  looked  white, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  503 

as  Arabel  said !  So  she  began  to  comfort  me  by  showing 
how  certain  it  was  that  I  should  recover  him  for  ten  pounds 
at  most,  and  we  came  home  ever  so  drearily.  Because 
Flush  doesn't  know  that  we  can  recover  him,  and  he  is  in 
the  extremest  despair  all  this  while,  poor  darling  Flush, 
with  his  fretful  fears,  and  pretty  whims,  and  his  fancy  of 
being  near  me.  All  this  night  he  will  howl  and  lament,  I 
know  perfectly, — for  I  fear  we  shall  not  ransom  him  to- 
night. Henry  went  down  for  me  directly  to  the  captain  of 
the  banditti,  who  evidently  knew  all  about  it,  said  Henry, 
— and  after  a  little  form  of  consideration  and  enquiry, 
promised  to  let  us  hear  something  this  evening,  but  has 
not  come  yet.  In  the  morning  perhaps  he  will  come. 
Henry  told  him  that  I  was  resolved  not  to  give  much — but 
of  course  they  will  make  me  give  what  they  choose — I  am 
not  going  to  leave  Flush  at  their  mercy,  and  they  know  that 
as  well  as  I  do.     My  poor  Flush ! 

When  we  shall  be  at  Pisa,  dearest,  we  shall  be  away 
from  the  London  dog-stealers — it  will  be  one  of  the  advan- 
tages. Another  may  be  that  I  may  have  an  opportunity 
of  '  forgiving '  you,  which  I  have  not  had  yet.  I  might 
reproach  you  a  little  in  my  letter,  and  I  did,  I  believe ;  but 
the  offending  was  not  enough  for  any  forgiving  to  follow — 
it  is  too  grand  a  word.  Also  your  worst  is  better  than  my 
best,  taking  it  on  the  whole.  How  then  should  I  be  able 
to  forgive  you,  my  beloved,  even  at  Pisa? 

If  we  go  to  Southampton,  we  go  straight  from  the  rail- 
road to  the  packet,  without  entering  any  hotel— and  if  we 
do  so,  no  greater  expense  is  incurred  than  by  the  long 
water-passage  from  London.  Also,  we  reach  Havre  alike 
in  the  morning,  and  have  the  day  before  us  for  Rouen, 
Paris  and  Orleans.  Thereupon  nothing  is  lost  by  losing 
the  early  hour  for  the  departure.  Then,  if  I  accede  to 
your  idSefxe  about  the  marriage !  Only  do  not  let  us  put  a 
long  time  between  that  and  the  setting  out,  and  do  not  you 
come  here  afterwards — let  us  go  away  as  soon  as  possible 
afterwards  at  least.     You  are  afraid  for  me  of  my  suffering 


504   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [Sept.  2 

from  the  autumnal  cold  when  it  is  yet  far  off— while  I 
(observe  this !)  while  /  am  afraid  for  myself,  of  breaking 
down  under  quite  a  different  set  of  causes,  in  nervous  ex- 
citement and  exhaustion.  I  belong  to  that  pitiful  order  of 
weak  women  who  cannot  command  their  bodies  with  their 
souls  at  every  moment,  and  who  sink  down  in  hysterical 
disorder  when  they  ought  to  act  and  resist.  Now  I  think 
and  believe  that  I  shall  take  strength  from  my  attachment 
to  you,  and  so  go  through  to  the  end  what  is  before  us ; 
but  at  the  same  time,  knowing  myself  and  fearing  myself, 
I  do  desire  to  provoke  the  '  demon '  as  little  as  possible, 
and  to  be  as  quiet  as  the  situation  will  permit.  Still, 
where  things  ought  to  be  done,  they  of  course  must  be  done. 
Only  we  should  consider  whether  they  really  ought  to  be 
done — not  for  the  sake  of  the  inconvenience  to  me,  but  of 
the  consequence  to  both  of  us. 

Do  I  frighten  you,  ever  dearest?  Oh  no — I  shall  go 
through  it,  if  I  keep  a  breath  of  soul  in  me  to  live  with. 
I  shall  go  through  it,  as  certainly  as  that  I  love  you.  I 
speak  only  of  the  accessory  circumstances,  that  they  may 
be  kept  as  smooth  as  is  practicable. 

You  are  not  well,  my  beloved — and  I  cannot  even  dream 
of  making  you  better  this  time, — because  you  will  think  it 
wise  for  us  not  to  meet  for  the  next  few  days  perhaps.  Mr. 
Kenyon  will  come  to  see  me,  he  said,  before  he  leaves  town, 
and  he  leaves  it  on  the  fourth,  fifth  or  sixth  of  September. 
This  is  the  first.  So  I  will  not  let  you  come  to  be  vexed 
as  last  time — no,  indeed.  But  write  to  me  instead — and 
pity  me  for  Flush.  Oh,  I  trust  to  have  him  back  to-mor- 
row. I  had  no  headache,  and  was  quite  perfectly  well  this 
morning  .  .  before  I  lost  him. 

Is  your  mother  able  to  walk?  is  she  worse  on  the  whole 
than  last  week  for  instance?  We  may  talk  of  September, 
but  you  cannot  leave  her,  you  know,  dearest,  if  she  should 
be  so  ill !  it  would  be  unkind  and  wrong. 

More,  to-morrow !  But  I  cannot  be  more  to-morrow, 
your  very  own — 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  505 


R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  2,  1846.] 

Poor  Mush — how  sorry  I  am  for  you,  my  Ba !  But  you 
will  recover  him,  I  dare  say  .  .  not,  perhaps  directly ;  the 
delay  seems  to  justify  their  charge  at  the  end :  poor  fellow 
■ — was  he  no  better  than  the  rest  of  us,  and  did  all  that 
barking  and  fanciful  valour  spend  itself  on  such  enemies  as 
Mr.  Kenyon  and  myself,  leaving  only  blandness  and  wag- 
gings  of  the  tail  for  the  man  with  the  bag?  I  am  sure  you 
are  grieved  and  frightened  for  our  friend  and  follower,  that 
was  to  be,  at  Pisa — will  you  not  write  a  special  note  to  tell 
me  when  you  get  him  again? 

For  the  rest — I  will  urge  you  no  more  by  a  single  word 
— you  shall  arrange  everything  henceforward  without  a 
desire  on  my  part, — an  expressed  one  at  least.  Do  not  let 
our  happiness  be  caught  up  from  us,  after  poor  Flush's 
fashion — there  may  be  no  redemption  from  that  peril. 

There  can  hardly  be  another  way  of  carrying  our  pur- 
pose into  effect  than  by  that  arrangement  you  consent  to — 
except  you  choose  to  sacrifice  a  day  and  incur  all  costs  of 
risk.  Of  course,  the  whole  in  the  wajr  and  with  the  con- 
ditions that  you  shall  determine. 

Do  you  think,  Ba,  I  apprehend  nothing  from  the  excite- 
ment and  exhaustion  attendant  on  it?  I  altogether  appre- 
hend it, — and  am  therefore  the  more  anxious  that  no  greater 
difficulty  should  be  superinduced  than  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary. Because  the  first  part  of  our  adventure  will  be  dan- 
gerous in  tliat  way,  I  want  the  second  part  to  be  as  safe  as 
possible  in  another.  I  should  care  comparatively  little 
about  winter-travelling,  even  (knowing  that  one  can  take 
precautions) — if  it  were  to  be  undertaken  under  really  pro- 
pitious circumstances,  and  you  set  forth  with  so  much 
kindness  to  carry  away  as  would  keep  you  warm  for  a 
week  or  two — but  the  '  winter  wind  that  is  not  so  unkind 


506   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Sept.  2 

as  &o,'  may  prove, — by  adding  its  share  of  unkindness  to 
the  greater,— intolerable.  Now,  my  last  word  is  said, 
however — and  a  kiss  follows ! 

I  thank  you,  dearest,  for  your  enquiries  about  my 
mother;  and  for  the  sympathy,  and  proposal  of  delay. 
She  is  better  this  morning,  I  hope.  From  the  time  that 
my  sister  went  to  Town,  she  discontinued  the  exercise 
which  does  her  such  evident  good — and  on  Monday  the 
walks  began  again — with  no  great  effect  yesterday  because 
of  the  dull  weather  and  sharp  wind  .  .  she  kept  at  home — 
but  this  morning  she  is  abroad,  and  will  profit  by  this  sun- 
shine, I  hope.  My  head  will  not  get  quite  well,  neither. 
I  take  both  effects  to  be  caused  by  the  turn  of  the  year. 

Bless  you,  dearest — I  cannot  but  acquiesce  in  your 
postponing  our  day  for  such  reasons.  Only,  do  not  mis- 
conceive those  few  foolish  words  of  impatience  .  .  a  great 
matter  to  bear  truly !  I  shall  be  punished  indeed  if  they 
prevent  you  from  according  to  me  one  hour  I  should  have 
otherwise  possessed. 

Bless  you  once  again,  my  Ba. 

My  mother  is  returned — very  much  better  indeed.  Re- 
member Flush — to  write. 


E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  September  3,  1846.] 

'  Our  friend  and  follower,  that  ivas  to  be ' — is  that, 
then,  your  opinion  of  my  poor  darling  Flush's  destiny — ? 
Ah, — I  should  not  have  been  so  quiet  if  I  had  not  known 
differently  and  better.  I  c  shall  not  recover  him  directly, ' 
you  think !  But,  dearest,  I  am  sure  that  I  shall.  I  am 
learned  in  the  ways  of  the  Philistines — I  knew  from  the 
beginning  where  to  apply  and  how  to  persuade.  The 
worst  is  poor  Flush's  fright  and  suffering.  And  then,  it 
is  inconvenient  just  now  to  pay  the  ransom  for  him.     But 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  507 

we  shall  have  time  to-morrow  if  not  to-night.  Two  hours 
ago  the  chief  of  the  Confederacy  came  to  call  on  Henry 
and  to  tell  him  that  the  '  Society  had  the  dog, '  having  done 
us  the  honour  of  tracking  us  into  Bond  Street  and  out  of 
Bond  Street  into  Vere  Street  where  he  was  kidnapped. 
Now  he  is  in  Wliitechapel  (poor  Flush) .  And  the  great 
man  was  going  down  there  at  half  past  seven  to  meet  other 
great  men  in  council  and  hear  the  decision  as  to  the  ran- 
som exacted,  and  would  return  with  their  ultimatum.  Oh, 
the  villainy  of  it  is  excellent,  and  then  the  humiliation  of 
having  to  pay  for  your  own  vexations  and  anxieties !  Will 
they  have  the  insolence,  now,  to  make  me  pay  ten  pounds, 
as  they  said  they  would?  But  I  must  have  Flush,  you 
know — I  can't  run  any  risk,  and  bargain  and  haggle.  There 
is  a  dreadful  tradition  in  this  neighbourhood,  of  a  lady  who 
did  so  having  her  dog's  head  sent  to  her  in  a  parcel.  So  I 
say  to  Henry — '  Get  Flush  back,  whatever  you  do  ' — for 
Henry  is  angry  as  he  may  well  be,  and  as  I  should  be  if 
I  was  not  too  afraid  .  .  and  talks  police-officers  against 
thieves,  and  finds  it  very  hard  to  attend  to  my  instructions 
and  be  civil  and  respectful  to  their  captain.  There  he 
found  him,  smoking  a  cigar  in  a  room  with  pictures !  They 
make  some  three  or  four  thousand  a  year  by  their  hon- 
ourable employment.  As  to  Flush's  following  anyone 
'  blandly, '  never  think  it.  He  was  caught  up  and  gagged 
.  .  depend  upon  that.  If  he  could  have  bitten,  he  would 
have  bitten — if  he  could  have  yelled,  he  would  have  yelled. 
Indeed  on  a  former  occasion  the  ingenuous  thief  observed, 
that  he  '  was  a  difficult  dog  to  get,  he  was  so  distrustful.' 
They  had  to  drag  him  with  a  string,  put  him  into  a  cab, 
they  said,  before.     Poor  Flush ! 

Dearest,  I  am  glad  that  your  mother  is  a  little  better — 
but  why  should  the  turn  of  the  year  make  you  suffer,  ever 
dearest?  I  am  not  easy  about  you  indeed.  Remember 
not  to  use  the  shower-bath  injudiciously — and  remember 
to  walk.  Do  you  walk  enough? — it  being  as  necessary  for 
you  as  for  your  mother. 


508   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [Sept.  3 

And  as  for  me  you  will  not  say  a  word  more  to  me,  you 
will  leave  me  to  my  own  devices  now. 

Which  is  just  exactly  what  you  must  not  do.  Ah,  why 
do  you  say  so,  even,  when  you  must  not  do  it?  Have  I 
refused  one  proposition  of  yours  when  there  were  not  strong 
obstacles,  that  you  should  have  finished  with  me  so,  my 
beloved?  For  instance,  I  agreed  to  your  plan  about  the 
marrying,  and  I  agreed  to  go  with  you  to  Italy  in  the  latter 
part  of  September — did  I  not?  And  what  am  I  disagree- 
ing in  now?  Don't  let  me  pass  for  disagreeable!  And 
don't,  above  all,  refuse  to  think  for  me,  and  decide  for  me, 
or  what  will  become  of  me,  I  cannot  guess.  I  shall  be 
worse  off  than  Flush  is  now  .  .  in  his  despair,  at  White- 
chapel.  Think  of  my  being  let  loose  upon  a  common,  just 
when  the  thunder-clouds  are  gathering !  !  You  would  not 
be  so  cruel,  you.  All  I  meant  to  say  was  that  it  would  be 
wise  to  make  the  occasions  of  excitement  as  few  as  possi- 
ble, for  the  reasons  I  gave  you.  But  I  shall  not  fail,  I 
believe — I  should  despise  myself  too  much  for  failing — 
I  should  lose  too  much  by  the  failure.  Then  there  is  an 
amulet  which  strengthens  the  heart  of  one, — let  it  incline 
to  fail  ever  so.  Believe  of  me  that  I  shall  not  fail,  dearest 
beloved — I  shall  not,  if  you  love  me  enough  to  stand  by — 
believe  that  always. 

The  heart  will  sink  indeed  sometimes — as  mine  does 
to-night,  I  scarcely  know  why — but  even  while  it  sinks,  I 
do  not  feel  that  I  shall  fail  so — I  do  not.  Dearest,  I  do 
not,  either,  '  misconceive, '  as  you  desire  me  not :  I  only 
infer  that  you  will  think  it  best  to  avoid  the  chance  of 
meeting  Mr.  Kenyon,  who  speaks  to  me,  in  a  note  received 
this  morning,  of  intending  to  leave  town  next  Monday — of 
coming  here  he  does  not  speak, — and  he  may  come  and  he 
may  not  come,  on  any  intermediate  day.  He  wrote  for  a 
book  he  lent  me.  If  I  do  not  see  you  until  Monday,  it  will 
be  hard — but  judge !  there  was  more  of  bitterness  than  of 
sweetness  in  the  last  visit. 

Mr.  Kenyon  said  in  his  note  that  he  had  seen  Moxon, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  509 

and  that  Tennyson  was  '  disappointed '  with  the  mountains. 
Is  not  that  strange?  Is  it  a  good  or  a  bad  sign  when  peo- 
ple are  disappointed  with  the  miracles  of  nature?  I  am 
accustomed  to  fancy  it  a  bad  sign.  Because  a  man's  imag- 
ination ought  to  aggrandise,  glorify,  consecrate.  A  man 
sees  with  his  mind,  and  mind  is  at  fault  when  he  does  not 
see  greatly,  I  think. 

Moxon  sent  a  civil  message  to  me  about  my  books 
'  going  off  regularly. ' 

And  now  i"  must  go  off' — it  is  my  turn.  Do  you  love 
me  to-night,  dearest?  I  ask  you  .  .  through  the  air.  I 
am  your  very  own  Ba. 

Say  how  you  are,  I  beseech  you,  and  tell  me  always 
and  particularly  of  your  mother. 

They  are  all  here,  gone  to  a  picnic  at  Richmond. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  September  3,  1846.] 

I  am  rejoiced  that  poor  Flush  is  found  again,  dearest — 
altogether  rejoiced. 

And  now  that  you  probably  have  him  by  your  side,  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  should  have  done  in  such  a  case,  be- 
cause it  explains  our  two  ways  of  seeing  and  meeting 
oppression  lesser  or  greater.  I  would  not  have  given  five 
shillings  on  that  fellow's  application.  I  would  have  said, 
— and  in  entire  earnestness  '  You  are  responsible  for  the 
proceedings  of  your  gang,  and  you  I  mark — don't  talk  non- 
sense to  me  about  cutting  off  heads  or  paws.  Be  as  sure 
as  that  I  stand  here  and  tell  you,  I  will  spend  my  whole 
life  in  putting  you  down,  the  nuisance  you  declare  yourself 
— and  by  every  imaginable  means  I  will  be  the  death  of 
you  and  as  many  of  your  accomplices  as  I  can  discover — 
but  you  I  have  discovered  and  will  never  lose  sight  of — now 
try  my  sincerity,  by  delaying  to  produce  the  dog  by  to- 
morrow.    And  for  the  ten  pounds — see ! '     Whereupon  I 


510   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [Sept.  3 

would  give  them  to  the  first  beggar  in  the  street.  You 
think  I  should  receive  Flush's  head?  Perhaps — so  God 
allows  matters  to  happen !  on  purpose,  it  may  be,  that  I 
should  vindicate  him  by  the  punishment  I  would  exact. 

Observe,  Ba,  this  course  ought  not  to  be  yours,  because 
it  could  not  be — it  would  not  suit  your  other  qualities. 
But  all  religion,  right  and  justice,  with  me,  seem  implied 
in  such  a  resistance  to  wickedness  and  refusal  to  multiply 
it  a  hundredfold — for  from  this  prompt  payment  of  ten 
pounds  for  a  few  minutes'  act  of  the  easiest  villainy,  there 
will  be  encouragement  to — how  many  similar  acts  in  the 
course  of  next  month?  And  how  will  the  poor  owners  fare 
who  have  not  money  enough  for  their  dogs'  redemption? 
I  suppose  the  gentleman,  properly  disgusted  with  such 
obstinacy,  will  threaten  roasting  at  a  slow  fire  to  test  the 
sincerity  of  attachment !  No — the  world  would  grow  too 
detestable  a  den  of  thieves  and  oppressors  that  way !  And 
this  is  too  great  a  piece  of  indignation  to  be  expressed 
when  one  has  the  sick  vile  headache  that  oppresses  me 
this  morning.  Dearest,  I  am  not  inclined  to  be  even  as  tol- 
erant as  usual.  Will  you  be  tolerant,  my  Ba,  and  forgive 
me — till  to-morrow  at  least — when,  what  with  physic,  what 
with  impatience,  I  shall  be  better  one  way  or  another? 

Ever  your  own  B. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Thursday  Afternoon. 
[Post-mark,  September  4,  1846.  ] 

When  I  had  finished  that  letter  this  morning,  dearest 
dearest,  before  I  could  seal  it,  even,  (my  sister  did  it  for 
me  .  .  and  despatched  it  to  the  post  at  once)  I  became 
quite  ill  and  so  sick  as  to  be  forced  to  go  up-stairs  and 
throw  myself  on  the  bed.  It  is  now  six  o'clock,  and  I  feel 
better,  and  have  some  thoughts  of  breaking  my  fast  to-day 
— but,  first  of  all  .  .  did  whatever  it  may  have  been  I 
wrote   seem   cross — unnecessarily  angry,   to  you,   dearest 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEKETT  511 

Ba?  Because,  I  confess  to  having  felt  indignant  at  this 
sample  of  the  evils  done  under  the  sun  every  day  .  .  .  and 
as  if  it  would  be  to  no  purpose  though  the  whole  world 
were  peopled  with  Ba's,  instead  of  just  Wimpole  Street; 
as  they  would  be  just  so  many  more  soft  cushions  for  the 
villainously-disposed  to  run  pins  into  at  their  pleasure. 
Donne  says  that  '  Weakness  invites,  but  silence  feasts  op- 
pression. '  And  it  is  horrible  to  fancy  how  all  the  oppres- 
sors in  their  several  ranks  may,  if  they  choose,  twitch  back 
to  them  by  the  heartstrings  after  various  modes  the  weak 
and  silent  whose  secret  they  have  found  out.  No  one 
should  profit  by  those  qualities  in  me,  at  least.  Having 
formed  a  resolution,  I  would  keep  it,  I  hope,  through  fire 
and  water,  and  the  threatener  of  any  piece  of  rascality, 
who  (as  commonly  happens)  should  be  without  the  full 
heart  to  carry  it  into  effect,  should  pay  me  exactly  the 
same  for  the  threat  .  .  which  had  determined  my  conduct 
once  and  for  ever.  But  in  this  particular  case,  I  ought  to 
have  told  you  (unless  you  divined  it,  as  you  might)  that  I 
would  give  all  I  am  ever  to  be  worth  in  the  world  to  get 
back  your  Flush  for  you — for  your  interest  is  not  mine, 
any  more  than  the  lake  is  the  river  that  goes  to  feed  it, — 
mine  is  only  made  to  feed  yours — I  am  yours,  as  we  say — 
as  I  feel  more  and  more  every  minute. 

Are  you  not  mine,  too?  And  do  you  not  forgive  your 
own  B. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  September  4,  1846.  ] 

Ever  dearest,  you  are  not  well — that  is  the  first  thing  !— 
And  that  is  the  thing  I  saw  first,  when,  opening  your  letter, 
my  eyes  fell  on  the  ending  sentence  of  it, — which  disen- 
chanted me  in  a  moment  from  the  hope  of  the  day.  Dear- 
est— you  have  not  been  well  for  two  or  three  days,  it  is 
plain, — and  now  you  are  very,  very  unwell — tell  me  if  it  is 
not  so?     I  beseech  you  to  let  me  hear  the  exact  truth  about 


512   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Sept.  4 

you,  for  I  am  very  uneasy,  and  it  is  dreadful  to  doubt 
about  knowing  the  exact  truth  in  all  such  cases.  How 
everything  goes  against  me  this  week!  I  cannot  see  you. 
I  cannot  comfort  myself  by  knowing  that  you  are  well. 
And  then  poor  Flush !  You  must  let  him  pass  as  one  of 
the  evils,  and  you  will,  I  know;  for  I  have  not  got  him 
back  yet — no,  indeed. 

I  should  have  done  it.  The  archfiend,  Taylor,  the  man 
whom  you  are  going  to  spend  your  life  in  persecuting  (the 
life  that  belongs  to  me,  too !) ,  came  last  night  to  say  that 
they  would  accept  six  pounds,  six  guineas,  with  half  a 
guinea  for  himself,  considering  the  trouble  of  the  media- 
tion ;  and  Papa  desired  Henry  to  refuse  to  pay,  and  not  to 
tell  me  a  word  about  it — all  which  I  did  not  find  out  till 
this  morning.  Now  it  is  less,  as  the  money  goes,  than  I 
had  expected,  and  I  was  very  vexed  and  angry,  and  wanted 
Henry  to  go  at  once  and  conclude  the  business — only  he 
wouldn't,  talked  of  Papa,  and  persuaded  me  that  Taylor 
would  come  to-day  with  a  lower  charge.  He  has  not  come 
— I  knew  he  would  not  come, — and  if  people  won't  do  as  I 
choose,  I  shall  go  down  to-morrow  morning  myself  and 
bring  Flush  back  with  me.  All  this  time  he  is  suffering 
and  I  am  suffering.  It  may  be  very  foolish — I  do  not  say 
it  is  not — or  it  may  even  be  '  awful  sin,'  as  Mr.  Boyd  sends 
to  assure  me — but  I  cannot  endure  to  run  cruel  hazards 
about  my  poor  Flush  for  the  sake  of  a  few  guineas,  or  even 
for  the  sake  of  abstract  principles  of  justice — I  cannot. 
You  say  that  /cannot,  .  .  but  that  youivould.  You  would! 
— Ah  dearest — most  pattern  of  citizens,  but  you  would  not 
— I  know  you  better.  Your  theory  is  far  too  good  not  to 
fall  to  pieces  in  practice.  A  man  may  love  justice  in- 
tensely ;  but  the  love  of  an  abstract  principle  is  not  the 
strongest  love — now  is  it?  Let  us  consider  a  little,  putting 
poor  Flush  out  of  the  question.  (You  would  bear,  you  say, 
to  receive  his  head  in  a  parcel — it  would  satisfy  you  to  cut 
off  Taylor's  in  return.)  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  if  the 
banditti  came  down  on  us  in  Italy  and  carried  me  off  to 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  513 

the  mountains,  and,  sending  to  you  one  of  my  ears,  to 
show  you  my  probable  fate  if  you  did  not  let  them  have  .  . 
how  much  may  I  venture  to  say  I  am  worth?  .  .  five  or  six 
scudi, — (is  that  reasonable  at  all?)  .  .  would  your  answer 
be  '  Not  so  many  crazie  ' ;  and  would  you  wait,  poised  upon 
abstract  principles,  for  the  other  ear,  and  the  catastrophe, 
— as  was  done  in  Spain  not  long  ago?  Would  you,  dearest? 
Because  it  is  as  well  to  know  beforehand,  perhaps. 

Ah — how  I  am  teazing  you,  my  beloved,  when  you  are 
not  well.  But  indeed  that  life  of  yours  is  worthy  of  better 
uses  than  to  scourge  Taylor  with,  even  if  /  should  not  be 
worth  the  crazie. 

I  have  seen  nobody  and  heard  nothing.  I  bought  a 
pair  of  shoes  to-day  lined  with  flannel,  to  walk  with  on  the 
bare  floors  of  Italy  in  the  winter.  Is  not  that  being  prac- 
tical and  coming  to  the  point?     I  did  it  indeed ! 

May  God  bless  you.  I  love  you  always  and  am  your 
own. 

Write  of  yourself,  I  do  pray  you — and  also,  how  is  your 
mother? 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Friday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  4,  1846.  ] 

You  dearest,  best  Ba,  I  will  say  at  the  beginning  of  the 
letter,  and  not  at  the  end,  this  time,  that  I  am  very  much 
better — my  head  clear  from  pain,  if  a  little  uncertain — I 
was  in  the  garden  when  your  letter  came.  The  worst  is, 
that  I  am  really  forced  to  go  and  dine  out  to-day — but  I 
shall  take  all  imaginable  care  and  get  away  early  .  .  and 
be  ready  to  go  and  see  you  at  a  minute's  notice,  should  a 
note  signify  your  permission  to-morrow  .  .  if  Mr.  Ken- 
yon' s  visit  is  over,  for  instance.  I  have  to  attribute  this 
effect  to  that  abstinent  system  of  yours.  Depend  on  it,  I 
shall  be  well  and  continue  well  now. 

Dear  Ba,  I  wrote  under  the  notion  (as  I  said)  that  poor 
Flush  was  safe  by  your  side ;  and  only  took  that  occasion 
Vol.  II.— 33 


514  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [Sept.  4 

to  point  at  what  I  must  still  consider  the  wrongness  of  the 
whole  system  of  giving  way  to,  instead  of  opposing,  such 
proceedings.  I  think  it  lamentable  weakness  .  .  though  I 
can  quite  understand  and  allow  for  it  in  you, — but  weak- 
ness it  essentially  is,  as  you  know  perfectly.  For  see,  you 
first  put  the  matter  in  the  gentlest  possible  light  .  .  '  who 
would  give  much  time  and  trouble  to  the  castigation  of 
such  a  fellow  as  that ! '  You  ask — and  immediately  after, 
for  another  purpose,  you  very  rightly  rank  this  crime  with 
that  other  enormous  one,  of  the  Spanish  banditti— nay,  you 
confess  that,  in  this  very  case,  any  such  injury  to  Flush 
as  you  dread  would  give  you  inexpressible  grief.  Is  the 
threatening  this  outrage  then  so  little  a  matter?  Am  I  to 
think  it  a  less  matter  if  the  same  miscreant  should  strike 
you  in  the  street  because  you  would  probably  suffer  less 
than  by  this  that  he  lias  done?  There  is  the  inevitable  in- 
consistency of  wrong  reasoning  in  all  this.  Say,  as  I  told 
you  on  another  subject, — '  I  determine  to  resist  no  injury 
whatever,  to  be  at  the  disposal  of  any  villain  in  the  world, 
trusting  to  God  for  protection  here  or  recompense  here- 
after ' — or  take  my  course ;  which  is  the  easier,  and  in  the 
long  run,  however  strangely  it  may  seem,  the  more  profit- 
able, no  one  can  doubt — but  I  take  the  harder — in  all  but 
the  responsibility — which,  without  any  cant,  would  be 
intolerable  to  me.  Look  at  this  '  society  '  with  its  '  four 
thousand  a  year ' — which  unless  its  members  are  perfect 
fools  they  will  go  on  to  double  and  treble — would  this  have 
existed  if  a  proper  stand  had  been  made  at  the  beginning? 
The  first  silly  man,  woman  or  child  who  consented  to  pay 
five  shillings,  beyond  the  mere  expense  of  keeping  the  dog 
(on  the  supposition  of  its  having  been  found,  not  stolen), 
is  responsible  for  all  the  harm — what  could  the  thief  do 
but  go  and  steal  another,  and  ask  double  for  its  ransom? 

And  see — dog-stealers  so  encouraged  are  the  lowest  of 
the  vile — can  neither  write  nor  read,  perhaps.  One  of  the 
fraternity  possesses  this  knowledge,  however,  and  aims 
higher.     Accordingly,  instead  of  stealing  your  dog,  he  de- 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  515 

termines  to  steal  your  character ;  if  a  guinea  (at  the  begin- 
ning) ransoms  the  one,  ten  pounds  shall  ransom  the  other ; 
accordingly  Mr.  Barnard  Gregory  takes  pen  in  hand  and 
writes  to  some  timid  man,  in  the  first  instance,  that  unless 
he  receives  that  sum,  his  character  will  be  blasted.  The 
timid  man  takes  your  advice  .  .  says  that  the  '  love  of  an 
abstract  principle  '  must  not  run  him  into  '  cruel  hazards  ' 
i  for  the  sake  of  a  few  guineas  ' — so  he  pays  them — who 
would  bother  himself  with  such  vermin  as  Gregory  ?  So 
Gregory  receives  his  pay  for  his  five  minutes'  penmanship 
— takes  down  a  directory,  and  writes  five  hundred  such  let- 
ters. Serjeant  Talfourd  told  me,  counting  them  on  his 
fingers,  '  such  and  such '  (naming  them)  cut  their  throats 
after  robbing  their  families,  employers  <fec. ,  such  fled  the 
country — such  went  mad  .  .  that  was  the  commonest  event.' 
At  last,  even  so  poor  a  creature  as  the  Duke  of  Brunswick, 
with  his  detestable  character  and  painted  face, — even  he 
plucks  up  courage  and  turns  on  Gregory,  grown  by  this 
time  into  a  really  formidable  monster  by  these  amiable 
victims  to  the  other  principle  of  easy  virtue, — and  the 
event  is  that  this  execrable  '  Abhorson's  '  trade  is  utterly 
destroyed — that  form  of  atrocious  persecution  exists  no 
longer.  I  am  in  no  danger  of  being  told,  at  next  post 
delivery,  that  having  been  '  tracked  up  Yere  Street,  down 
Bond  Street,  &c. '  into  Wimpole  Street  my  character  and 
yours  will  be  the  subject  of  an  article  in  the  next  Satirist 
unless '  .  . 

To  all  of  which  you  have  a  great  answer — '  What  should 
I  do  if  you  were  to  be  the  victim?  '  That  my  note  yester- 
day, the  second  one,  told  you.  I  sacrifice  myself  .  .  all 
that  belongs  to  me — but  there  are  some  interests  which  I 
belong  to — I  have  no  right,  no  more  than  inclination,  in 
such  a  case,  to  think  of  myself  if  your  safety  is  concerned, 
and  as  I  could  cut  off  a  limb  to  save  my  head,  so  my  head 
should  fall  most  willingly  to  redeem  yours  .  .  I  would 
pay  every  farthing  I  had  in  the  world,  and  shoot  with  my 
own  hand  the  receiver  of  it  after  a  chase  of  fifty  years — 


516   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING     [Sept.  4 

esteeming  that  to  be  a  very  worthy  recompense  for  the 
trouble. 

But  why  write  all  this  string  of  truisms  about  the  plain- 
est thing  in  the  world?  All  reformers  are  met  at  the  out- 
set by  such  dissuasion  from  their  efforts.  '  Better  suffer 
the  grievance  and  get  off  as  cheaply  as  you  [can] — You, 
Mahomet, — what  if  the  Caaba  be  only  a  black  stone?  You 
need  only  bow  your  head  as  the  others,  and  make  any 
inward  remark  you  like  on  the  blindness  of  the  people. 
You,  Hampden,  have  you  really  so  little  wit  as  to  contest 
payment  of  a  paltry  20s.  at  such  risk? ' 

Ah,  but  here  all  the  fuss  is  just  about  stealing  a  dog — 
two  or  three  words,  and  the  matter  becomes  simply  ludi- 
crous— very  easily  got  rid  of !  One  cannot  take  vengeance 
on  the  '  great  man '  with  his  cigar  and  room  of  pictures 
and  burlesque  dignities  of  mediation !  Just  so,  when  Rob- 
ert was  inclined  to  be  sorry  for  the  fate  of  Bertha's  sister, 
one  can  fancy  what  a  relief  and  change  would  be  operated 
in  his  feelings,  if  a  good-natured  friend  send  him  a  version 
of  his  mighty  crime  in  Lord  Rochester's  funny  account  of 
•  forsaken  damsels '  .  .  with  the  motto  '  Women  have  died 
ere  now  and  worms  have  eaten  them— but  not  for  love — ' 
or  •  At  lovers'  perjuries  Jove  laughs '  why,  Robert  is  a 
'  lady-killer '  like  D'Orsay !  Well,  enough  of  sermonizing 
for  the  present;  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  differ  with  you 
and  treat  that  as  a  light  matter  .  .  or,  what  on  earth  would 
have  been  so  little  to  wonder  at,  as  that,  loving  Flush,  you 
should  determine  to  save  him  at  any  price?  If  c  Chiap- 
pino  '  were  to  assure  you,  in  terms  that  you  could  not  dis- 
believe, that  in  the  event  of  your  marrying  me  he  would 
destroy  himself, — would  you  answer,  as  I  should,  '  Do  so, 
and  take  the  consequences,' — and  think  no  more  about  the 
matter?  I  should  absolutely  leave  it,  as  not  my  concern 
•but  God's — nor  should  blame  myself  any  more  than  if  the 
poor  man,  being  uncertain  what  to  do,  had  said  '  If  a  man 
first  passes  the  window — yes— if  a  woman — no ' — and  I,  a 
total  stranger,  had  passed. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  517 

One  word  more — in  all  this,  I  labour  against  the  exe- 
crable policy  of  the  world's  husbands,  fathers,  brothers, 
and  domineerers  in  general.  I  am  about  to  marry  you  .  . 
how  wise,  then,  to  encourage  such  a  temper  in  you !  such 
was  that  divine  Griselda's — a  word  rules  the  gentle  nature 
— c  Do  this,  or  .  .  .  . ' 

My  own  Ba,  if  I  thought  you  could  fear  me,  I  think  I 
should  have  the  courage  to  give  you  up  to-morrow ! 

Because  to-day  I  am  altogether  yours,  and  you  are  my 
very  own — and  to-morrow  never  comes,  they  say.  Bless 
you,  my  best  dearest  Ba — and  if  you  think  I  deserve  it, 
you  shall  test  the  excellence  of  those  slippers  on  my  cheek, 
(and  not  the  flannelled  side,  neither),  the  next  happy  time 
I  see  you  .  .  which  will  be  soon,  soon,  I  trust !  who  am 
more  than 

ever  your  own  R. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Friday. 
[Post-mark,  September  5,  1846.] 

You  best !  "Was  ever  any  in  the  world,  in  any  possible 
world,  so  perfectly  good  and  dear  to  another  as  you  are  to 
me !  Ah !  if  you  could  know  how  I  feel  to  you,  when  you 
write  such  words  as  came  to  me  this  morning — Dearest ! 
It  ends  in  that,  all  I  can  say.  And  yet  I  must  say  besides 
that  the  idea  of  '  crossness, '  of  hardness,  never  came  to  me, 
for  one  moment,  from  the  previous  letter.  I  just  shook  my 
head  and  thought  how  you  would  not  act  it  out,  if  you  had 
a  Flush.  Upon  which  I  could  not  follow  out  my  argument 
to  myself,  through  thinking  that  you  were  ill. 

You  are  better  now,  Robert,  and  you  promise  to  take 
care  of  the  dinner,  where  you  should  not  go  if  I  were  near 
you.  I  should  be  '  afraid  of  you '  far  too  much  to  let  you, 
indeed !  Such  a  wrong  thing  that  dinner  is  .  .  as  wrong 
as  any  dogstealer  in  his  way  .  .  drawing  you  out  just 
when  you  ought  to  be  at  home  and  quiet,  if  not  '  absti- 
nent.5    When  did  I  ever  tell  you  to  be  abstinent,  pray? 


518   THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Sept.  5 

You  are  too  much  so,  it  seems  to  me,  in  general :  and  to 
pass  the  whole  of  that  day  without  eating !  How  unwell 
you  must  have  been,  dearest !  How  I  long  to  see  you  and 
ascertain  that  you  look  tolerably  well !  How  very,  very 
happy  I  should  be,  to  be  able  to  look  at  you  to-morrow. 
But  no,  no !  Mr.  Kenyon  does  not  come,  and  we  must  be 
wise,  I  suppose,  and  wait  till  the  ground  is  clear  of  him, 
which  will  not  be  till  Monday.  Probably  he  will  visit  me 
on  Sunday — but  the  chance  of  Saturday  is  like  the  hat  on 
a  pole  in  gardens,  set  there  to  frighten  away  the  birds. 
Still  they  may  sing  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  not  to  be 
too  far  from  the  cherries  and  the  hope  of  them.  Monday 
surely  will  be  a  clear  day.  Unless  Mr.  Kenyon  shall  put 
off  his  journey  just  to  despite  us — who  shall  say? 

I  have  not  Flush  yet.  I  am  to  have  him  to-morrow 
morning. 

And  for  the  Flush-argument,  dear  dearest,  I  hold  that 
your  theory  is  entirely  good  and  undeniable.  I  agree 
with  you  throughout  it,  praising  Mahomet,  praising 
Hampden,  and  classing  the  Taylors,  Gregorys,  and  Span- 
ish banditti  all  together.  Also  I  hope  I  should  try,  at 
least,  to  resist  with  you  their  various  iniquities — and,  for 
instance,  I  do  not  think  that  any  Gregory  in  the  world 
would  draw  a  shilling  from  me,  by  a  threat  against  my  own 
character.  I  should  dare  that,  oh,  I  am  confident  I  should 
■ — the  indignation  would  be  far  the  stronger,  where  I  my- 
self only  was  involved.  And  even  in  the  imaginary  Chiap- 
pino-case,  the  selfish  and  dastardly  threat  would  fall  from 
me  like  a  child's  arrow  from  steel.     I  believe  so. 

But  Flush,  poor  Flush,  Flush  who  has  loved  me  so 
faithfully ;  have  I  a  right  to  sacrifice  him  in  his  innocence, 
for  the  sake  of  any  Mr.  Taylor's  guilt  in  the  world?  Does 
not  Flush's  condition  assimilate  to  my  own  among  the 
banditti?  for  you  agree  that  you  would  not,  after  all,  leave 
me  to  the  banditti — and  I,  exactly  on  the  same  ground,  will 
not  leave  Flush.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  and  I  are  at  one 
upon  the  whole  question, — only  that  /am  your  Flush,  and 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  519 

he  is  mine.  You,  if  you  were  '  consistent '  .  .  dearest !  .  . 
would  not  redeem  me  on  any  account.  You  do  ever  so 
much  harm  by  it,  observe — you  produce  catastrophe  on 
catastrophe,  just  for  the  sake  of  my  two  ears  without  ear- 
rings !  Oh,  I  entirely  agree  with  your  principle.  Evil 
should  be  resisted  that  it  may  fly  from  you. 

But  Flush  is  not  to  be  sacrificed — nor  even  is  Ba,  it  ap- 
pears. So  our  two  weaknesses  may  pardon  one  another, 
yours  and  mine ! 

Some  dog,  shut  up  in  a  mews  somewhere  behind  this 
house,  has  been  yelling  and  moaning  to-day  and  yesterday. 
How  he  has  made  me  think  of  my  poor  poor  Flush,  I  can- 
not tell  you — '  Think  of  Flush'  he  seemed  to  say. 

Yes ! —  A  blow  in  the  street !  I  wish  somebody  would 
propose  such  a  thing  to  me,  in  exchange !  I  would  have 
thanked  Mr.  Taylor  himself  for  striking  me  down  in  the 
street,  if  the  stroke  had  been  offered  as  an  alternative  for 
the  loss  of  Flush.  You  may  think  it  absurd — but  when 
my  dinner  is  brought  to  me,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  not 
(scarcely)  touch  it — the  thought  of  poor  Flush's  golden 
eyes  is  too  strong  in  me. 

Not  a  word  of  your  mother.  She  is  better,  I  trust! 
And  you  .  .  may  God  keep  you  better,  beloved !  To  be 
parted  from  you  so  long,  teaches  me  the  necessity  of  your 
presence — I  am  your  very,  very  own. 

I  was  out  to-day — driving  along  the  Hampstead  Road. 
What  weather ! 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  September  5,  1846.] 

Dearest  Ba,  I  feel  your  perfect  goodness  at  my  heart — I 
can  say  nothing. 

Nor  write  very  much  more :  my  head  still  teazes,  rather 
than  pains  me.  Don't  lay  more  of  it  to  the  dinner  than 
necessary :  I  got  my  sister  to  write  a  letter  deprecatory  of 
all  pressing  to  eat  and  drink  and  such  mistaken  hospitality 


520   THE  LETTERS  OF  EOBEET  BROWNING     [Sept.  5 

— to  the  end  that  I  might  sit  unpitied,  uncon  doled  with, 
and  be  an  eyesore  to  nobody — which  succeeded  so  well  that 
I  eat  some  mutton  and  drank  wine  and  water  without  let  or 
molestation.  Our  party  was  reduced  to  three,  by  a  couple 
of  defections — but  there  was  an  immense  talking  and  I  dare 
say  this  continuance  of  my  ailment  is  partly  attributable 
to  it.  I  shall  be  quiet  now.  I  tell  you  the  simple  truth, 
that  you  may  believe — and  this  also  believe,  that  it  would 
have  done  me  great  good  to  go  to  you  this  morning, — if  I 
could  lean  my  head  on  your  neck,  what  could  pain  it,  dear 
dear  Ba? 

I  am  sorry  poor  Flush  is  not  back  again — very  sorry. 
But  no  one  would  hurt  him,  be  quite  sure  .  .  his  mere 
value  prevents  that. 

Shall  I  see  you  on  Monday  then?  This  is  the^rs^  time 
since  we  met  at  the  beginning,  that  a  whole  week,  from  a 
Sunday  to  a  Saturday,  has  gone  by  without  a  day  for  us. 
Well — I  trust  you  are  constant  .  .  nay  you  are  constant 
to  your  purpose  of  leaving  at  the  end  of  this  month.  .  When 
we  meet  next,  let  us  talk  of  our  business,  like  the  grave 
man  and  woman  we  are  going  to  become.  Mr.  K.  will  be 
away — how  fortunate  this  is  !  We  need  implicate  nobody. 
And  in  the  end  the  reasonableness  of  what  we  do  will  be 
apparent  to  everybody — if  I  can  show  you  well  and  happy, 
— which  God  send! 

Kiss  me  as  I  kiss  you,  my  own  Ba.  I  am  all  one  wide 
wonder  at  your  loving  nature :  I  can  only  give  it  the  like 
love  in  return,  and  as  much  limited  as  I  am  limited.  But 
I  seem  really  to  grow  under  you, — my  faculties  extend 
toward  yours. 

May  God  bless  you,  and  enable  me  to  make  you  as 
happy  as  your  dear  generous  heart  will  be  contented  to  be 
made.     I  am  your  own  R. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  521 


K  B.  B.  to  R*  B. 

Saturday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  5,  1846.] 

Dearest,  I  write  just  a  few  lines  that  you  may  know  me 
for  thinking  of  you  to-morrow.  Flush  has  not  come  and  I 
am  going  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  myself, — Henry  being 
far  too  lukewarm.  He  says  I  may  be  robbed  and  murdered 
before  the  time  for  coming  back,  in  which  case  remember 
that  it  is  not  my  fault  that  I  do  not  go  with  you  to  Pisa. 

Just  now  came  a  kind  little  note  from  dear  Mr.  Ken- 
yon,  who  will  not  come,  he  says,  Flush  being  away,  and 
has  set  out  on  his  travels,  meaning  not  to  come  back  for  a 
week.  So  I  might  have  seen  you  after  all,  to-day !  My 
comfort  is,  that  it  is  good  for  you,  beloved,  to  be  quiet, 
and  that  coming  through  the  sun  might  have  made  your 
head  suffer.  How  my  thoughts  are  with  you — how  all  day 
they  never  fall  from  you !  I  shall  have  my  letter  to-night 
through  your  dear  goodness,  which  is  a  lamp  hung  up 
for  me  to  look  towards.  Aladdin's,  did  you  say?  Yes, 
Aladdin's. 

As  to  being  afraid  of  you  ever — once,  do  you  know,  I 
was  quite  afraid  .  .  in  a  peculiar  sense— as  when  it  thun- 
ders, I  am  afraid  .  .  or  a  little  different  from  that  even — 
or,  oh  yes,  very  different  from  that .  Now  it  is  changed  .  . 
the  feeling  is — and  I  am  not  afraid  even  so — except  some- 
times of  losiDg  your  affection  by  some  fault  of  my  own — I 
am  not  afraid  that  it  would  be  a  fault  of  yours,  remember. 
I  trust  you  for  goodness  to  the  uttermost — and  I  know  per- 
fectly that  if  you  did  not  love  me  (supposing  it)  you  are 
one  who  would  be  ashamed  for  a  woman  to  fear  you,  as 
some  women  fear  some  men.  For  me,  I  could  not,  you 
know — I  knew  you  too  well  and  love  you  too  perfectly,  and 
everybody  can  tell  what  perfect  love  casts  out. 

So  you  need  not  have  done  with  me  for  that  reason  J 
Understand  it. 


522   THE  LETTERS  OE  EOBEET  BROWNING    [Sept.  5 

And  if  I  shall  not  be  slain  by  the  '  society,'  you  shall 
be  written  to  again  to-night.  Ah — say  in  the  letter  I  am 
to  have,  that  you  are  better!  And  you  are  to  come  on 
Monday — dear,  dearest !  mind  that  I 

Your  Ba. 

Come  back  safe,  but  without  Flush — I  am  to  have  him 
to-night  though. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  September  7,  1846.] 

Not  well — not  well !  But  I  shall  see  you  with  my  own 
eyes  soon  after  you  read  what  I  write  to-day;  so  I  shall 
not  write  much.  Only  a  few  words  to  tell  you  that  Flush 
is  found,  and  lying  on  the  sofa,  with  one  paw  and  both 
ears  hanging  over  the  edge  of  it.  Still  my  visit  to  Taylor 
was  not  the  successful  one.     My  hero  was  not  at  home. 

I  went,  you  know,  .  .  did  I  tell  you?  .  .  with  Wilson 
in  the  cab.  We  got  into  obscure  streets ;  and  our  cabman 
stopped  at  a  public  house  to  ask  his  way.  Out  came  two 
or  three  men,  .  .  '  Oh,  you  want  to  find  Mr.  Taylor,  I  dare 
say ! '  (mark  that  no  name  had  been  mentioned !)  and  in- 
stantly an  unsolicited  philanthropist  ran  before  us  to  the 
house,  and  out  again  to  tell  me  that  the  great  man  '  wasn't 
at  home !  but  wouldn't  I  get  out?  '  Wilson,  in  an  aside  of 
terror,  entreated  me  not  to  think  of  such  a  thing — she 
believed  devoutly  in  the  robbing  and  murdering,  and  was 
not  reassured  by  the  gang  of  benevolent  men  and  boys  who 
'  lived  but  to  oblige  us  '  all  round  the  cab.  '  Then  wouldn't 
I  see  Mrs.  Taylor,'  suggested  the  philanthropist, — and, 
notwithstanding  my  negatives,  he  had  run  back  again  and 
brought  an  immense  feminine  bandit,  .  .  fat  enough  to 
have  had  an  easy  conscience  all  her  life,  .  .  who  informed 
me  that  '  her  husband  might  be  in  in  a  few  minutes,  or  in 
so  many  hours — wouldn't  I  like  to  get  out  and  wait '  (Wil- 
son pulling  at  my  gown,  the  philanthropist  echoing  the 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  523 

invitation  of  the  feminine  Taylor.) — '  No,  I  thanked  them 
all — it  was  not  necessary  that  I  should  get  out,  but  it  ivas, 
that  Mr.  Taylor  should  keep  his  promise  about  the  resto- 
ration of  a  dog  which  he  had  agreed  to  restore — and  I 
begged  her  to  induce  him  to  go  to  Wimpole  Street  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  and  not  defer  it  any  longer. '  To  which, 
replied  the  lady,  with  the  most  gracious  of  smiles — '  Oh 
yes  certainly  ' — and  indeed  she  did  believe  that  Taylor  had 
left  home  precisely  on  that  business — poising  her  head  to 
the  right  and  left  with  the  most  easy  grace — '  She  was  sure 
that  Taylor  would  give  his  very  best  attention. '  .  .  . 

So,  in  the  midst  of  the  politeness,  we  drove  away,  and 
"Wilson  seemed  to  be  of  opinion  that  we  had  escaped  with 
our  lives  barely.  Plain  enough  it  was,  that  the  gang  was 
strong  there.  The  society  .  .  the  '  Fancy  '  .  .  had  their 
roots  in  the  ground.     The  faces  of  those  men  !— 

I  had  not  been  at  home  long,  when  Mr.  Taylor  did 
actually  come — desiring  to  have  six  guineas  confided  to  his 
honour!  !  .  .  and  promising  to  bring  back  the  dog.  I 
sent  down  the  money,  and  told  them  to  trust  the  gentle- 
man's honour,  as  there  seemed  no  other  way  for  it — and 
while  the  business  was  being  concluded,  in  came  Alfred, 
and  straightway  called  our  '  honourable  friend '  (meeting 
him  in  the  passage)  a  swindler  and  a  liar  and  a  thief. 
"Which  no  gentleman  could  bear,  of  course.  Therefore 
with  reiterated  oaths  he  swore,  '  as  he  hoped  to  be  saved, 
we  should  never  see  our  dog  again ' — and  rushed  out  of  the 
house.  Followed  a  great  storm.  I  was  very  angry  with 
Alfred,  who  had  no  business  to  risk  Flush's  life  for  the 
sake  of  the  satisfaction  of  trying  on  names  which  fitted. 
Angry  I  was  with  Alfred,  and  terrified  for  Flush, — see- 
ing at  a  glance  the  probability  of  his  head  being  cut  off  as 
the  proper  vengeance!  and  downstairs  I  went  with  the 
resolution  of  going  again  myself  to  Mr.  Taylor's  in  Man- 
ning Street,  or  Shoreditch  [or]  wherever  it  was,  and  saving 
the  victim  at  any  price.  It  was  the  evening,  getting  dusk — 
and  everybody  was  crying  out  against  me  for  being  '  quite 


524  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Sept.  7 

mad '  and  obstinate,  and  wilful — I  was  called  as  many 
names  as  Mr.  Taylor.  At  last,  Sette  said  that  lie  would  do 
it,  promised  to  be  as  civil  as  I  could  wish,  and  got  me  to  be 
'  in  a  good  humour  and  go  up  to  my  room  again. '  And  he 
went  instead  of  me,  and  took  the  money  and  fair  words, 
and  induced  the  '  man  of  honour  '  to  forfeit  his  vengeance 
and  go  and  fetch  the  dog.  Flush  arrived  here  at  eight 
o'clock  (at  the  very  moment  with  your  letter,  dearest !),  and 
the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  dash  up  to  this  door,  and  then 
to  drink  his  purple  cup  full  of  water,  filled  three  times 
over.  He  was  not  so  enthusiastic  about  seeing  me,  as 
I  expected — he  seemed  bewildered  and  frightened — and 
whenever  anyone  said  to  him  '  Poor  Flush,  did  the  naughty 
men  take  you  away  ?  '  he  put  up  his  head  and  moaned  and 
yelled.  He  has  been  very  unhappy  certainly.  Dirty  he 
is,  and  much  thinner,  and  continually  he  is  drinking. 
Six  guineas,  was  his  ransom — and  now  I  have  paid  twenty 
for  him  to  the  dog-stealers. 

Arabel  says  that  I  wanted  you  yesterday,  she  thought, 
to  manage  me  a  little.  She  thought  I  was  suddenly  seized 
with  madness,  to  prepare  to  walk  out  of  the  house  in  that 
state  of  excitement  and  that  hour  of  the  evening.  But  now 
— was  I  to  let  them  cut  off  Flush's  head? — 

There !  I  have  told  you  the  whole  history  of  yester- 
day's adventures — and  to-morrow  I  shall  see  you,  my  own 
dear,  dear ! — Only  remember  for  my  sake,  not  to  come  if 
you  are  not  fit  to  come.  Dearest,  remember  not  to  run 
any  hazards ! — That  dinner !  which  I  will  blame,  because  it 
deserves  it !  Mind  not  to  make  me  be  as  bad  as  that  din- 
ner, in  being  the  means  of  working  you  harm !  So  I  expect 
you  to-morrow  conditionally  .  .  if  you  are  well  enough! — 
and  I  thank  you  for  the  kind  dear  letter,  welcome  next  to 
you,  .  .  being  ever  and  ever  your  own 

Ba. 

I  have  been  to  the  vestry  again  to-day. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  525 


R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday  Afternoon. 
[Post-mark,  September  7,  1846.  ] 

No,  dearest,  I  am  not  to  see  you  to-morrow  for  all  the 
happiness  of  the  permission !  It  seems  absurd,  but  per- 
haps the  greater  absurdity  would  be  a  refusal  to  submit, 
under  circumstances.  You  shall  hear — I  got  up  with  the 
old  vertiginousness,  or  a  little  worse — and  so,  as  I  had  in 
that  case  determined,  went  to  consult  my  doctor.  He 
thinks  he  finds  the  root  of  the  evil  and  can  remove  it,  '  if  I 
have  patience  enough  ' — so  I  promised  .  .  expecting  some- 
thing worthy  that  preamble — whereas  I  am  bidden  go  to 
bed  and  keep  there  for  a  day  or  two — from  this  Sunday  till 
Wednesday  morning — taking  nothing  but  a  sip  of  medicine 
I  can't  distinguish  from  water,  thrice  a  day- — and  milk  at 
discretion — no  other  food!  The  mild  queerness  of  it  is 
amusing,  is  it  not?  'And  for  this  fine  piece  of  self-denial, ' 
says  he,  'you  shall  be  quite  well  by  the  week's  end.' — 
'  But  may  I  go  to  town  on  Wednesday?  ' — '  Yes.' — 

Now,  Ba,  my  own  Ba,  you  know  how  often  I  have  to 
sorrowfully  disclaim  all  the  praises  your  dearest  kindness 
would  attach  to  me ;  this  time,  if  you  will  praise  me  a  lit- 
tle for  obeying  you,  I  will  take  the  praise — for  the  truth  of 
truths  is,  that  I  said  at  once  to  myself — '  have  I  a  right  to 
avoid  anything  which  promises  to  relieve  Her  from  this 
eternal  account  of  aches  and  pains?  '  So  here  am  I  writ- 
ing, leaning  on  my  elbow,  in  bed, — as  I  never  wrote  before 
I  think — and  perhaps  my  head  is  a  little  better,  or  I  fancy 
so.  Mind,  I  may  read,  or  write, — only  in  bed  I  must  lie, 
because  there  is  some  temperature  to  be  kept  up  in  the 
skin,  or  some  other  cause  as  good — '  for  reasons,  for  rea- 
sons.' 

'  The  milk,'  answers  Ba,  is  exactly  to  correct  the  super- 
abundant gall  of  bitterness  which  overflowed  lately  about 
Flush.     So  it  is,  my  own  Ba — and  for  Flush,  the  victim  of 


526   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Sept.  7 

a  principle,  he  is  just  saved  from  a  sickness  by  cakes  I 
meditated  as  a  joy -offering  on  his  safe  return.  Will  you, 
among  the  other  kisses,  give  him  one  for  me?  And  save 
yet  another  for  your  own  B>. 

How  I  shall  need  your  letters,  dearest ! 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  7,  1846.] 

Ever,  ever  dearest,  how  was  it  that  without  presenti- 
ment of  evil  I  got  up  this  morning  in  the  good  spirits  of 
'  our  days, '  hoping  to  see  you,  believing  to  see  you,  and 
feeling  that  it  would  be  greater  happiness  than  usual?  The 
sight  of  your  letter,  even,  did  not  provoke  the  cloud — that 
was  only  the  lesser  joy,  I  thought,  preceding  the  greater! 
And  smiling  to  myself  I  was,  both  last  night  and  this 
morning,  at  your  phrase  about  the  '  business  '  to  be  talked 
by  the  '  grave  man  and  woman  ' ;  understanding  y  our  pre- 
caution against  all  unlawful  jesting !— jesters  forbidden  in 
the  protocol !  And  then,  at  last,  to  be  made  so  suddenly 
grave  and  sad  even !  How  am  I  to  be  comforted,  my  own 
dearest?  No  way,  except  by  your  being  really  better, 
really  well — in  order  to  which  I  shall  not  let  you  come  as 
soon  as  Wednesday :  it  will  not  be  wise  for  you  to  leave 
your  bed  for  a  journey  into  London !  Rather  you  should 
be  very  quiet,  and  keep  in  the  garden  at  farthest.  Take 
care  of  yourself,  dearest  dearest,  and  if  you  think  of  me 
and  love  me,  show  it  in  that  best  way.  And  I  praise  you, 
praise  you, — nay,  I  thank  you  and  am  grateful  to  you  for 
every  such  proof  of  love,  more  than  for  other  kinds  of  proof, 
— I  will  love  you  for  it,  my  beloved !  Now  judge — shall  I 
be  able  to  help  thinking  of  you  every  moment  of  the  day? 
Could  I  help  it,  if  I  tried?  In  return,  therefore,  you  will 
attend  to  the  orders,  submit  to  the  discipline — ah,  but 
will  not  the  leaving  off  all  food  but  milk  weaken  you  out 
of  measure?    I  am  uneasy  about  that  milk-diet  for  you, 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  527 

who  always  seem  to  me  to  want  support,  and  something  to 
stimulate.  You  will  promise  to  tell  me  everything — will 
you,  dearest? — whether  better  or  worse,  stronger  or  weaker, 
you  will  tell  me?  And  if  you  should  be  too  unwell  to 
write,  as  may  God  forbid,  your  sister  will  write — she  will 
have  that  great  goodness?     Let  it  be  so,  I  beseech  you. 

But  you  will  be  better — oh,  I  mean  to  hope  stedfastly 
toward  your  being  better,  and  toward  the  possibility  of  our 
meeting  before  the  week  ends.  And  as  for  this  day  lost, 
it  is  not  of  importance  except  in  our  present  thoughts: 
soon  you  will  have  more  than  enough  of  me,  you  know. 
For  I  am  in  earnest  and  not  a  jester  au  fond,  and  am  ready 
to  do  just  as  you  bid  me  and  think  best — which  I  tell  you 
now,  that  you  may  not  be  vexed  at  a  shadow,  after  my  own 
fashion.  May  God  bless  you — '  and  me  in  you. '  Have  I 
not  leave  to  say  that,  too,  since  I  feel  it  more  than  you 
could  .  .  (more  intensely  .  .  I  do  not  say  more  sincerely  .  .) 
when  you  used  it  first?  My  happiness  and  life  are  in  you, — 
I  am  your  very  own 

Ba. 

Your  mother — how  is  she?  Mind  you  get  an  amusing 
book  .  .  something  to  amuse  only,  and  not  use  you.  Do 
you  know  the  '  Mathilde  '  of  Sue?  I  shall  write  again  to- 
night. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  7,  1846.] 

I  had  the  greatest  mind,  when  your  letter  came —  (the 
most  welcome  of  all  letters — so  much  more  than  I  could 
expect!) — to  get  up  at  once  and  be  well  in  your  dearest 
eyes  or  through  them — but  I  checked  myself  and  thought 
that  I  ought  to  be  contented  with  one  such  a  letter  through 
whole  long  weeks  of  annoyance,  instead  of  one  day  more. 

I  am  delighted  to  know  Flush  is  with  you,  if  I  am  not. 
Did  you  remember  my  petition  about  him?  But,  dearest, 
it  was  very  imprudent  to  go  to  those  disgusting  wretches 


528   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING    [Sept.  1 

yourself — they  have  had  a  pretty  honour  without  know- 
ing it ! 

Here  I  lie  with  a  dizzy  head — unable  to  read  more  than 
a  page  or  two  .  .  there  is  something  in  the  unwonted  posi- 
tion that  tires  me — but  whenever  the  book  is  left  off,  I  turn 
to  the  dark  side  of  the  room  and  see  you,  my  very  own  Ba, 
— and  so  I  am  soon  better  and  able  to  try  again. 

How  hot,  and  thunder-like,  this  oppressive  air !  And 
you  who  are  affected  by  such  weather?  Tell  me,  my  dear- 
est dearest,  all  you  can  tell  me — since  the  real  lips  and 
eyes  are  away. 

Bless  you,  my  beloved.  Kemember,  I  count  upon  see- 
ing you  on  Wednesday  at  farthest. 

Your  own  R. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday  Night. 
[Post-mark,  September  8,  1846.  ] 

How  unwell  you  are,  dearest  beloved !  Ah  no !  It  is 
not  '  the  position  that  tires  you, '  it  is  the  illness  that  inca- 
pacitates you.  And  you  to  think  of  getting  up  and  coming 
here  .  .  you !  Now,  for  my  sake,  for  both  our  sakes,  you 
must  and  shall  be  patient  and  quiet,  and  remember  how  my 
thoughts  are  with  you  conjuring  you  continually  to  quiet. 
As  to  the  reading,  .  .  you  see  it  makes  you  dizzy, — and  to 
provoke  that  sensation  cannot  plainly  be  right :  and  you 
will  be  right  always,  will  you  not,  for  my  sake,  dearest  of 
all?  And  for  the  coining  here  on  Wednesday,  .  .  no,  no, 
I  say  again, — you  ought  not  to  do  it,  and  you  shall  not: 
we  will  see  how  you  are,  later  in  the  week ;  but  for  Wed- 
nesday, certainly  no.  That  violent  transition  from  the  bed 
to  the  omnibus  would  be  manifestly  wrong.  Also  I  can  be 
quite  satisfied  without  seeing  you,  if  I  may  but  hear  of 
your  being  well  again.  I  wonder  to-day  how  yesterday  I 
was  impatient  about  not  having  seen  you  so  long.  Oh,  be 
well,  be  well,  dearest !    There  is  no  need  of  your  being  ill 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  529 

to  prove  to  me  how  I  love  you  entirely,  how  I  love  you 
only ! 

For  Flush,  I  did  your  commission,  kissing  the  top  of 
his  head :  then  I  took  the  kiss  back  again  because  it  seemed 
too  good  for  him  just  noiv.  And  you  shall  not  say  that 
you  '  are  glad  he  is  with  me  '  if  you  are  not?  It  is  more  to 
Flush's  disadvantage,  that  phrase  is,  than  all  your  theories 
which  pretended  to  leave  him  with  the  dogstealers.  How 
can  I  be  glad  of  anyone's  being  with  me,  if  you  are  not? 
And  how  should  you  be  glad  for  anything,  if  Jam  not? 
Flush  and  I  know  our  logic  better  than  to  accept  that  con- 
gratulation of  yours,  with  the  spike  pricking  us  out  of  it. 

So  hot,  indeed,  to-day !  If  you  thought  of  me,  I 
thought  of  you,  through  it  all.  This  close  air  cannot  be 
good  for  you  while  you  are  shut  up.  But  /have  not  been 
shut  up.  I  went  out  in  the  carriage  and  bought  a  pair  of 
boots  for  Italy,  besides  the  shoes— because,  you  see,  we 
shall  have  such  long  walks  in  the  forest  after  the  camels, 
and  it  won't  do  to  go  in  one's  slippers.  Does  not  tliat 
sound  like  '  a  grave  woman?  '  You  need  not  make  laws 
against  the  jesters,  after  all !  You  need  only  be  well !  And, 
gravely,  quite  gravely,  is  it  not  likely  that  going  to  Italy, 
that  travelling,  and  putting  an  end  to  all  the  annoyances 
which  lately  have  grown  up  out  of  our  affairs,  will  do  you 
good,  substantial  good,  in  this  chief  matter  of  your  health? 
It  seems  so  to  me  sometimes.  You  are  always  well,  you 
say,  in  Italy,  and  when  you  get  there  once  again.  But  in 
the  meanwhile,  try  to  be  a  little  better,  my  own  dearest ! 
I  cannot  write  to  you  except  about  you  to-night.  The  sub- 
ject is  too  near  me — I  am  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
and  cannot  see  over  it.  To-morrow  I  shall  hear  more,  and 
trust  to  you  to  tell  me  the  whole,  unmutilated  truth.  May 
God  bless  you,  as  /would,  I  in  my  weakness!  For  the 
best  blessing  on  your  part,  love  your  own  Ba. 

And  do  not  tire  yourself  with  writing.     The  least  line — 
three  words — I  beseech  you  not  to  let  me  do  you  harm. 
Vol.  II. -34 


530  THE  LETTEES  OF  BOBERT  BROWHING    [Sept.  8 


B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  8,  1846.] 

Do  you  think  your  wishes,  much  less  your  blessings, 
fall  to  the  ground,  my  own  Ba?  Here  is  your  letter,  and 
here  am  I  writing  to  you,  '  clothed  and  in  my  proper ' 
room.  My  doctor  bade  me  '  get  up  and  do  as  I  pleased ' 
— and  the  perfect  pleasure  is  to  say,  I  may  indeed  see  you 
to-morrow,  dearest,  dearest !  Can  you  look  as  you  look  in 
this  letter?  So  entirely  my  own,  and  yet, — what  should 
never  be  my  own,  by  right  .  .  such  a  treasure  to  one  so  little 
worthy ! 

I  have  only  a  few  minutes  to  say  this, — the  dressing 
and  talking  having  taken  up  the  time.     To-morrow  shall 


repay  me 


The  lightness,  slight  uneasiness  of  the  head,  continues, 
though  the  general  health  is  much  better,  it  seems. 

Do  you  doubt  I  shall  be  well  in  Italy?  But  I  must 
leave  off.  Bless  you  as  you  have  blessed  me,  my  best, 
dearest  Ba,  me  who  am  your  very  own  R. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  September  9,  1846.  ] 

I  write  a  word  to  say,  .  .  dearest,  do  not  run  any  risk 
about  coming  to-morrow.  I  mean,  .  .  unless  you  are  sure 
that  the  noise  and  exertion  will  not  be  too  much  for  you, — ■ 
unless,  when  the  moment  comes  for  setting  off,  you  feel 
equal  to  it  .  .  now,  I  do  beseech  you,  very  dear,  not  to 
persist  in  coming  because  you  have  said  that  you  will 
come — I  beseech  you.  Listen.  At  three  o'clock  I  shall 
expect  you  doubtfully ;  at  half-past  three,  the  doubt  will 
be  the  strongest ;  and  at  a  quarter  to  four,  I  shall  have  said 
to  myself  cheerfully,  that  you  were  wise  and  good  and  had 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  531 

determined  to  stay  at  home.  In  that  case,  I  shall  have  a 
line  from  you  by  five  or  six !  Understand  all  this,  and  let 
it  have  the  right  influence  and  no  more.  Of  course  if  I 
could  see  you  without  harm  to  yourself,  and  so  to  me,  it 
would  be  a  great  happiness:  it  even  makes  me  happy  to 
think  of,  as  a  bare  possibility,  at  this  distance  off !  I  am 
happy  by  your  letter,  twice  over,  indeed — once,  for  that 
reason,  ,  .  and  again,  for  the  thought  of  your  being  in 
some  respects  better.  At  the  same  time  I  do  not  see  why 
your  wise  man  did  not  follow  his  plan  to  the  end.  It  looks 
as  if  he  did  not  think  you  better  essentially  because  of  it. 
Ah  well,  I  shall  see  with  my  eyes  to-morrow — perhaps  I 
shall :  and  I  shall  see  in  a  dream  to-night  more  certainly. 
This  shall  go  at  once,  though,  that  it  may  reach  you  in 
time  in  the  morning.  How  I  thank  you  for  the  precious 
note !  You  are  so  much  too  good  to  me,  that  your  being 
also  too  dear  is  an  excusable  consequence — or  would  be,  if 
it  were  possible.  I  write  nonsense,  I  believe, — but  it  is 
half  for  gladness  .  .  and  half  ,  ,  for  what  makes  me  your 
own 

Ba. 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Wednesday  Night. 
[Post-mark,  September  10,  1846.] 

Dearest,  you  are  a  prophet,  I  suppose — there  can  be  no 
denying  it.  This  night,  an  edict  has  gone  out,  and  George 
is  to-morrow  to  be  on  his  way  to  take  a  house  for  a  month 
either  at  Dover,  Reigate,  Tunbridge,  .  .  Papa  did  '  not 
mind  which, '  he  said,  and  '  you  may  settle  it  among  you !  ! ' 
but  he  '  must  have  this  house  empty  for  a  month  in  order 
to  its  cleaning  ' — we  are  to  go  therefore  and  not  delay. 

Now! — what  can  be  done?  It  is  possible  that  the 
absence  may  be  longer  than  for  a  month,  indeed  it  is  prob- 
able— for  there  is  much  to  do  in  painting  and  repairing, 
here  in  Wimpole  Street,  more  than  a  month's  work  they 
say.     Decide,  after  thinking.     I  am  embarrassed  to  the 


532   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  10 

utmost  degree,  as  to  the  best  path  to  take.     If  we  are  taken 
away  on  Monday  .  .  what  then? 

Of  course  I  decline  to  give  any  opinion  and  express  any 
preference, — as  to  places,  I  mean.  It  is  not  for  my  sake 
that  we  go : — if  /  had  been  considered  at  all,  indeed,  we 
should  have  been  taken  away  earlier,  .  .  and  not  certainly 
now,  when  the  cold  season  is  at  hand.  And  so  much  the 
better  it  is  for  me,  that  I  have  not,  obviously,  been 
thought  of. 

Therefore  decide!  It  seems  quite  too  soon  and  too 
sudden  for  us  to  set  out  on  our  Italian  adventure  now — and 
perhaps  even  we  could  not  compass — 

Well — but  you  must  think  for  both  of  us.  It  is  past 
twelve  and  I  have  just  a  moment  to  seal  this  and  entrust  it 
to  Henrietta  for  the  morning's  post. 

More  than  ever  beloved,  I  am 
Your  own  Ba. 

I  will  do  as  you  wish — understand. 

R.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Thursday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  10,  1846.] 

What  do  you  expect  this  letter  will  be  about,  my  own 
dearest?  Those  which  I  write  on  the  mornings  after  our 
days  seem  naturally  to  answer  any  strong  point  brought 
out  in  the  previous  discourse,  and  not  then  completely  dis- 
posed of  .  .  so  they  generally  run  in  the  vile  fashion  of  a 
disputatious  'last  word';  'one  word  yet' — do  not  they? 
Ah,  but  you  should  remember  that  never  does  it  feel  so 
intolerable, — the  barest  fancy  of  a  possibility  of  losing  you 
— as  when  I  have  just  seen  you  and  heard  you  and,  alas — 
left  you  for  a  time ;  on  these  occasions,  it  seems  so  hor- 
rible— that  if  the  least  recollection  of  a  fear  of  yours,  or  a 
doubt  .  .  .  anything  which  might  be  nursed,  or  let  grow 
quietly  into  a  serious  obstacle  to  what  we  desire — if  that 
rises  up  threateningly, — do  you  wonder  that  I  begin  by 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  533 

attacking  it  ?  There  are  always  a  hundred  deepest  reasons 
for  gratitude  and  love  which  I  could  write  about,  but  which 
my  after  life  shall  prove  I  never  have  forgotten  .  .  still, 
that  very  after-life  depends  perhaps  on  the  letter  of  the 
morning  reasoning  with  you,  teazing,  contradicting.  Dear- 
est Ba,  I  do  not  tell  you  that  I  am  justified  in  plaguing 
you  thus,  at  any  time  .  .  only  to  get  your  pardon,  if  I 
can,  on  the  grounds — the  true  grounds. 

And  this  pardon,  if  you  grant  it,  shall  be  for  the  past 
offences,  not  for  any  fresh  one  I  mean  to  commit  now.  I 
will  not  add  one  word  to  those  spoken  yesterday  about  the 
extreme  perilousness  of  delay.  You  give  me  yourself. 
Hitherto,  from  the  very  first  till  this  moment,  the  giving 
hand  has  been  advancing  steadily — it  is  not  for  me  to  grasp 
it  lest  it  stop  within  an  inch  or  two  of  my  forehead  with 
its  crown. 

I  am  going  to  town  this  morning,  and  will  leave  off 
now. 

What  a  glorious  dream;  through  nearly  two  years — 
without  a  single  interval  of  blankness, — much  less,  bitter 
waking ! 

I  may  say  that,  I  suppose,  safely  through  whatever 
befalls! 

Also  I  will  ever  say,  God  bless  you,  my  dearest  dear- 
est,— my  perfect  angel  you  have  been!  While  I  am  only 
your  R. 

My  mother  is  deeply  gratified  at  your  present. 

12  o'clock.  On  returning  I  find  your  note, 
'  I  will  do  as  you  wish — understand  ' — then  I  under- 
stand you  are  in  earnest.  If  you  do  go  on  Monday,  our 
marriage  will  be  impossible  for  another  year — the  misery ! 
You  see  what  we  have  gained  by  waiting.  We  must  be 
married  directly  and  go  to  Italy.  I  will  go  for  a  licence 
to-day  and  we  can  be  married  on  Saturday.  I  will  call 
to-morrow  at  3  and  arrange  everything  with  you.  We  can 
leave  from  Dover  &c,  after  that, — but  otherwise,  impossi- 


534  THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  10 

ble !     Inclose  the  ring,  or  a  substitute — I  have  not  a  minute 
to  spare  for  the  post. 

Ever  your  own  B. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

4  p.m.  Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  September  10,  1846.] 

I  broke  open  your  sealed  letter  and  added  the  postscript 
just  now.  The  post  being  thus  saved,  I  can  say  a  few 
words  more  leisurely. 

I  will  go  to-morrow,  I  think,  and  not  to-day  for  the 
licence — there  are  fixed  hours  I  fancy  at  the  office — and  I 
might  be  too  late.  I  will  also  make  the  arrangement  with 
my  friend  for  Saturday,  if  we  should  want  him, — as  we 
shall,  in  all  probability — it  would  look  suspiciously  to  be 
unaccompanied.     We  can  arrange  to-morrow. 

Your  words,  first  and  last,  have]  been  that  you  '  would 
not  fail  me  ' — you  will  not. 

And  the  marriage  over,  you  can  take  advantage  of  cir- 
cumstances and  go  early  or  late  in  the  week,  as  may  be 
practicable.  There  will  be  facilities  in  the  general  packing 
&c. , — your  own  measures  may  be  taken  unobserved.  Write 
short  notes  to  the  proper  persons, — promising  longer  ones, 
if  necessary. 

See  the  tone  I  take,  the  way  I  write  to  you  .  .  but  it  is 
all  through  you,  in  the  little  brief  authority  you  give  me, 
— and  in  the  perfect  belief  of  your  truth  and  firmness — 
indeed,  I  do  not  consider  this  an  extraordinary  occasion  for 
proving  those  qualities — this  conduct  of  your  father's  is 
quite  characteristic. 

Otherwise,  too,  the  departure  with  its  bustle  is  not  un- 
favourable. If  you  hesitated,  it  would  be  before  a  little 
hurried  shopping  and  letter-writing !  I  expected  it,  and 
therefore  spoke  as  you  heard  yesterday.  Now  your  part 
must  begin.  It  may  as  well  begin  and  end,  both,  now  as 
at  any  other  time.  I  will  bring  you  every  information 
possible  to-morrow. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAERETT  535 

It  seems  as  if  I  should  insult  you  if  I  spoke  a  word  to 
confirm  you,  to  beseech  you,  to  relieve  you  from  your 
promise,  if  you  claim  it. 

God  bless  you,  prays  your  own  E. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  September  11,  1846.]' 

Dearest,  I  write  one  word,  and  have  one  will  which  is 
yours.  At  the  same  time,  do  not  be  precipitate — we  shall 
not  be  taken  away  on  Monday,  no,  nor  for  several  days 
afterward.  George  has  simply  gone  to  look  for  houses — 
going  to  Reigate  first. 

Oh  yes — come  to-morrow.  And  then,  you  shall  have 
the  ring  .  .  soon  enough  and  safer. 

Not  a  word  of  how  you  are ! — you  so  good  as  to  write 
me  that  letter  beyond  compact,  yet  not  good  enough,  to 
say  how  you  are !  Dear,  dearest  .  .  take  care,  and  keep 
yourself  unhurt  and  calm.  I  shall  not  fail  to  you— I  do 
not,  I  will  not.  I  will  act  by  your  decision,  and  I  wish 
you  to  decide.  I  was  yours  long  ago,  and  though  you  give 
me  back  my  promise  at  this  eleventh  hour,  .  .  you  gener- 
ous, dear  unkind!  .  .  .  you  know  very  well  that  you  can 
do  as  well  without  it.  So  take  it  again  for  my  sake  and 
not  your  own. 

I  cannot  write,  I  am  so  tired,  having  been  long  out. 
Will  not  this  dream  break  on  a  sudden?  Now  is  the 
moment  for  the  breaking  of  it,  surely. 

But  come  to-morrow,  come.  Almost  everybody  is  to 
be  away  at  Richmond,  at  a  picnic,  and  we  shall  be  free  on 
all  sides. 

Ever  and  ever  your  Ba. 

1  [The  envelope  of  this  letter  is  endorsed  by  R.  B.  '  Saturday,  Septr. 
12,  1846,  ill-lli  A.  m.  (91). '  This  is  the  record  of  his  marriage  with 
E.  B.  B.  in  Marylebone  Church.  The  number  91  indicates  that  it  was 
the  ninety-first  of  their  meetings,  a  record  of  which  was  always  en- 
dorsed by  Robert  Browning  on  the  letters  received  by  him  from  Miss 
Barrett.] 


536  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  12 


B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

1  p.m.  Saturday. 
[Post-mark,  September  12,  1846.] 

You  will  only  expect  a  few  words — what  will  those  be? 
When  the  heart  is  full  it  may  run  over,  but  the  real  ful- 
ness stays  within. 

You  asked  me  yesterday  '  if  I  should  repent?  '  Yes — 
my  own  Ba, — I  could  wish  all  the  past  were  to  do  over 
again,  that  in  it  I  might  somewhat  more, — never  so  little 
more,  conform  in  the  outward  homage  to  the  inward  feel- 
ing. What  I  have  professed  .  .  (for  I  have  performed 
nothing)  seems  to  fall  short  of  what  my  first  love  required 
even — and  when  I  think  of  this  moment's  love  .  .  I  could 
repent,  as  I  say. 

Words  can  never  tell  you,  however, — form  them,  trans- 
form them  anyway,  —how  perfectly  dear  you  are  to  me — 
perfectly  dear  to  my  heart  and  soul. 

I  look  back,  and  in  every  one  point,  every  word  and 
gesture,  every  letter,  every  silence — you  have  been  entirely 
perfect  to  me — I  would  not  change  one  word,  one  look. 

My  hope  and  aim  are  to  preserve  this  love,  not  to  fall 
from  it — for  which  I  trust  to  God  who  procured  it  for  me, 
and  doubtlessly  can  preserve  it. 

Enough  now,  my  dearest,  dearest,  own  Ba !  You  have 
given  me  the  highest,  completest  proof  of  love  that  ever 
one  human  being  gave  another.  I  am  all  gratitude — and 
all  pride  (under  the  proper  feeling  which  ascribes  pride  to 
the  right  source)  all  pride  that  my  life  has  been  so  crowned 
by  you. 

God  bless  you  prays  your  very  own  B. 

I  will  write  to-morrow  of  course.  Take  every  care  of 
my  life  which  is  in  that  dearest  little  hand;  try  and  be 
composed,  my  beloved. 

Remember  to  thank  Wilson  for  me. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  587 


K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Saturday.     Sept.  12.— 4|  p.m. 
[Post-mark,  September  12,  1846.] 

Ever  dearest,  I  write  a  word  that  you  may  read  it  and 
know  how  all  is  safe  so  far,  and  that  I  am  not  slain  down- 
right with  the  day — oh,  such  a  day  I  I  went  to  Mr.  Boyd's 
directly,  so  as  to  send  Wilson  home  the  faster — and  was 
able  to  lie  quietly  on  the  sofa  in  his  sitting-room  down- 
stairs, before  he  was  ready  to  see  me,  being  happily 
engaged  with  a  medical  councillor.  Then  I  was  made  to 
talk  and  take  Cyprus  wine, — and,  my  sisters  delaying  to 
come,  I  had  some  bread  and  butter  for  dinner,  to  keep  me 
from  looking  too  pale  in  their  eyes.  At  last  they  came, 
and  with  such  grave  faces !  Missing  me  and  Wilson,  they 
had  taken  fright,  —  and  Arabel  had  forgotten  at  first  what  I 
told  her  last  night  about  the  fly.  I  kept  saying,  '  What 
nonsense,  .  .  what  fancies  you  do  have  to  be  sure,'  .  . 
trembling  in  my  heart  with  every  look  they  cast  at  me. 
And  so,  to  complete  the  bravery,  I  went  on  with  them  in 
the  carriage  to  Hampstead  .  .  as  far  as  the  heath, — and 
talked  and  looked — now  you  shall  praise  me  for  courage — 
or  rather  you  shall  love  me  for  the  love  which  was  the  root 
of  it  all.  How  necessity  makes  heroes — or  heroines  at 
least !  For  I  did  not  sleep  all  last  night,  and  when  I  first 
went  out  with  Wilson  to  get  to  the  fly-stand  in  Marylebone 
Street  I  staggered  so,  that  we  both  were  afraid  for  the 
fear's  sake, — but  we  called  at  a  chemist's  for  sal  volatile 
and  were  thus  enabled  to  go  on.  I  spoke  to  her  last  night, 
and  she  was  very  kind,  very  affectionate,  and  never  shrank 
for  a  moment.  I  told  her  that  always  I  should  be  grateful 
to  her. 

You — how  are  you?  how  is  your  head,  ever  dearest? 

It  seems  all  like  a  dream !  When  we  drove  past  that 
church  again,  I  and  my  sisters,  there  was  a  cloud  before 
my  eyes.  Ask  your  mother  to  forgive  me,  Robert.  If  1 
had  not  been  there,  she  would  have  been  there,  perhaps. 


538   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  12 

And  for  the  rest,  if  either  of  us  two  is  to  suffer  injury 
and  sorrow  for  what  happened  there  to-day — I  pray  that  it 
may  all  fall  upon  me  /  Nor  should  I  suffer  the  most  pain 
that  way,  as  I  know,  and  God  knows. 

Your  own 

Ba. 

Was  I  very  uncourteous  to  your  cousin?  So  kind,  too, 
it  was  in  him !  Can  there  be  the  least  danger  of  the  news- 
papers ?  Are  those  books  ever  examined  by  penny-a-liners, 
do  you  suppose? 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Sunday. 
[Post-mark,  September  14,  1846.] 

My  own  beloved,  if  ever  you  should  have  reason  to  com- 
plain of  me  in  things  voluntary  and  possible,  all  other 
women  would  have  a  right  to  tread  me  underfoot,  I  should 
be  so  vile  and  utterly  unworthy.  There  is  my  answer  to 
what  you  wrote  yesterday  of  wishing  to  be  better  to  me  .  . 
you !  What  could  be  better  than  lifting  me  from  the 
ground  and  carrying  me  into  life  and  the  sunshine?  I  was 
yours  rather  by  right  than  by  gift  (yet  by  gift  also,  my 
beloved !) ;  for  what  you  have  saved  and  renewed  is  surely 
yours.  All  that  I  am,  I  owe  you — if  I  enjoy  anything  now 
and  henceforth,  it  is  through  you.  You  know  this  well. 
Even  as  /,  from  the  beginning,  knew  that  I  had  no  power 
against  you,    .  .  or  that,  if  I  had,  it  was  for  your  sake. 

Dearest,  in  the  emotion  and  confusion  of  yesterday 
morning,  there  was  yet  room  in  me  for  one  thought  which 
was  not  a  feeling — for  I  thought  that,  of  the  many,  many 
women  who  have  stood  where  I  stood,  and  to  the  same 
end,  not  one  of  them  all  perhaps,  not  one  perhaps,  since 
that  building  was  a  church,  has  had  reasons  strong  as 
mine,  for  an  absolute  trust  and  devotion  towards  the  man 

she  married, not  one!     And  then  I  both  thought  and 

felt,  that  it  was  only  just,  for  them,  .  .  those  women  who 
were  less  happy,  .  .  to  have  that  affectionate  sympathy 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  539 

and  support  and  presence  of  their  nearest  relations,  parent 
or  sister  .  .  which  failed  to  me,  .  .  needing  it  less  through 
being  happier ! 

All  my  brothers  have  been  here  this  morning,  laughing 
and  talking,  and  discussing  this  matter  of  the  leaving  town, 
— and  in  the  room,  at  the  same  time,  were  two  or  three 
female  friends  of  ours,  from  Herefordshire — and  I  did  not 
dare  to  cry  out  against  the  noise,  though  my  head  seemed 
splitting  in  two  (one  half  for  each  shoulder),  I  had  such  a 
morbid  fear  of  exciting  a  suspicion.  Trippy  too  being  one 
of  them,  I  promised  to  go  to  see  her  to-morrow  and  dine 
in  her  drawing-room  if  she  would  give  me,  for  dinner, 
some  bread  and  butter.  It  was  like  having  a  sort  of  fever. 
And  all  in  the  midst,  the  bells  began  to  ring.  '  What  bells 
are  those? '  asked  one  of  the  provincials.  '  Marylebone 
Church  bells  '  said  Henrietta,  standing  behind  my  chair. 

And  now  .  .  while  I  write,  having  escaped  from  the 
great  din,  and  sit  here  quietly, — comes  .  .  who  do  you 
think? — Mr.  Kenyon. 

He  came  with  his  spectacles,  looking  as  if  his  eyes 
reached  to  their  rim  all  the  way  round ;  and  one  of  the  first 
words  was,  '  When  did  you  see  Browning  ?  '  And  I  think  I 
shall  make  a  pretension  to  presence  of  mind  henceforward ; 
for,  though  certainly  I  changed  colour  and  he  saw  it,  I  yet 
answered  with  a  tolerably  quick  evasion,  .  .  '  He  was  here 
on  Friday  ' — and  leapt  straight  into  another  subject,  and 
left  him  gazing  fixedly  on  my  face.  Dearest,  he  saw  some- 
thing, but  not  all.  So  we  talked,  talked.  He  told  me  that 
the  '  Fawn  of  Sertorius, '  (which  I  refused  to  cut  open  the 
other  day,)  was  ascribed  to  Landor — and  he  told  me  that 
he  meant  to  leave  town  again  on  Wednesday,  and  would 
see  me  once  before  then.  On  rising  to  go  away,  he  men- 
tioned your  name  a  second  time  .  .  '  When  do  you  see 
Browning  again?  '  To  which  I  answered  that  I  did  not 
know. 

Is  not  that  pleasant?  The  worst  is  that  all  these  com- 
binations of  things  make  me  feel  so  bewildered  that  I  can- 


540   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  H 

not  make  the  necessary  arrangements,  as  far  as  the  letters 
go.  But  I  must  break  from  the  dream -stupor  which  falls 
on  me  when  left  to  myself  a  little,  and  set  about  what 
remains  to  be  done. 

A  house  near  Watford  is  thought  of  now — but,  as  none 
is  concluded  on,  the  removal  is  not  likely  to  take  place  in 
the  middle  of  the  week  even,  perhaps. 

I  sit  in  a  dream,  when  left  to  myself.  I  cannot  believe, 
or  understand.  Oh !  but  in  all  this  difficult,  embarrassing 
and  painful  situation,  I  look  over  the  palms  to  Troy — I 
feel  happy  and  exalting  to  belong  to  you,  past  every  oppo- 
sition, out  of  sight  of  every  will  of  man — none  can  put  us 
asunder,  now,  at  least.  I  have  a  right  now  openly  to  love 
you,  and  to  hear  other  people  call  it  a  duty,  when  I  do,  .  . 
knowing  that  if  it  were  a  sin,  it  would  be  done  equally. 
Ah — /  shall  not  be  first  to  leave  off  that — see  if  I  shall ! 
May  God  bless  you,  ever  and  ever  dearest !  Beseech  for 
me  the  indulgence  of  your  father  and  mother,  and  ask  your 
sister  to  love  me.  I  feel  so  as  if  I  had  slipped  down  over 
the  wall  into  somebody's  garden — I  feel  ashamed.  To  be 
grateful  and  affectionate  to  them  all,  while  I  live,  is  all 
that  I  can  do,  and  it  i§  too  much  a  matter  of  course  to  need 
to  be  promised.  Promise  it  however  for  your  very  own  Ba 
whom  you  made  so  happy  with  the  dear  letter  last  night. 
But  say  in  the  next  how  you  are — and  how  your  mother  is. 

I  did  hate  so,  to  have  to  take  off  the  ring !  You  will 
have  to  take  the  trouble  of  putting  it  on  again,  some  day. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Sunday  Afternoon. 
[Post-mark,  September  14,  1846.] 

Thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  the  note,  my  own  Ba. 
I  welcomed  it  as  I  never  yet  welcomed  even  your  notes ; 
entirely  kind  to  write,  and  write  so  !  Oh,  I  know  the  effort 
you  made,  the  pain  you  bore  for  my  sake !  I  tell  you, 
once  and  for  ever,  your  proof  of  love  to  me  is  made  .  .  I 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARKETT  541 

know  love,  my  dearest  clearest:  my  whole  life  sliall  be 
spent  in  trying  to  furnish  such  a  proof  of  my  affection; 
such  a  perfect  proof, — and  perhaps  vainly  spent — but  I 
will  endeavour  with  God's  help.  Do  you  feel  what  I  mean, 
dearest?  How  you  have  dared  and  done  all  this,  under 
my  very  eyes,  for  my  only  sake?  I  believed  you  would  be 
capable  of  it — what  then?  What  is  a  belief?  My  own 
eyes  have  seen — my  heart  will  remember ! 

Dearest,  nothing  needs  much  trouble  you  farther :  take 
your  own  time  and  opportunity.  I  confide  in  your  judg- 
ment—  (for  I  am  not  going  to  profess  confidence  in  you !) — 
I  am  sure  you  will  see  and  act  for  the  best.  My  prepara- 
tions are  made;  I  have  only  to  await  your  desires.  I  will 
not  ask  to  see  you,  for  instance — though  of  course  a  word 
brings  me  as  usual  to  you — your  will  is  altogether  my  will. 

The  first  obvious  advantage  of  our  present  relation,  I 
will  take.  You  are  mine — your  generosity  has  given  to 
me  my  utmost  claim  upon  your  family — so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, putting  aside  my  sympathy  with  you,  there  is 
nothing  more  they  can  give  me :  so,  I  will  say,  perhaps  a 
little  less  reservedly  than  I  could  have  brought  myself  to 
say  before,  that  there  is  no  conceivable  submission  I  will 
refuse,  nor  possible  satisfaction  I  will  hesitate  to  make  to 
those  feelings  I  have  been  forced  to  offend,  if  by  any  means 
I  may  preserve,  for  you,  so  much  of  their  affection  as  you 
have  been  accustomed  to  receive ;  I  do  not  require  any- 
thing beyond  toleration  for  myself  .  .  I  will  cheerfully 
accept  as  the  truest  kindness  to  me,  a  continuance  of  kind- 
ness to  you.  You  know  what  I  would  have  done  to  possess 
you: — now  that  I  do  possess  you,  I  renew  the  offer  to  you 
.  .  judge  with  what  earnest  purpose  of  keeping  my  word ! 
I  do  not  think  .  .  nor  do  you  think  .  .  that  any  personal 
application,  directly  or  by  letter,  would  do  any  good — it 
might  rather  add  to  the  irritation  we  apprehend :  but  my 
consent  is  given  beforehand  to  any  measure  you  shall  ever 
consider  proper.  And  your  father  may  be  sure  that  while 
I  adore  his  daughter  it  will  be  impossible  for  me,  uuder 


U%   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBEKT  BKOWNIHG  [Sept.  14 

any  circumstances,  to  be  wanting  in  the  utmost  respect  for, 
and  observance  of,  himself.  Understand,  with  the  rest, 
why  I  write  this,  Ba.  To  your  brothers  and  sisters  I  am 
bound  for  ever, — by  every  tie  of  gratitude:  they  may 
acquiesce  more  easily  .  .  comprehending  more,  perhaps, 
of  the  dear  treasure  you  are,  they  will  forgive  my  ambition 
of  gaining  it.  I  will  write  to  Mr.  Kenyon.  You  will 
probably  have  time  to  write  all  the  letters  requisite. 

Do  not  trouble  yourself  with  more  than  is  strictly  nec- 
essary-— you  can  supply  all  wants  at  Leghorn  or  Pisa. 
Let  us  be  as  unencumbered  with  luggage  as  possible. 

What  is  your  opinion  about  the  advertisements?  If 
our  journey  is  delayed  for  a  few  da}rs,  we  had  better  omit 
the  date,  I  think.  And  the  cards  ?  I  will  get  them  en- 
graved if  you  will  direct  me.  The  simplest  form  of 
course : — and  the  last  (or  among  the  last)  happens  to  be 
als.o  the  simplest,  consisting  merely  of  the  words  '  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  R.  B. '  on  one  card — with  the  usual  '  at  home  '  in  a 
corner.  How  shall  we  manage  that,  by  the  way  ?  Could 
we  put '  In  Italy  for  a  year?  '  There  is  precedent  for  it- 
Sir— Fellow's  (what  is  the  traveller's  name?) — his  were 
thus  subscribed.  By  which  means  we  should  avoid  telling 
people  absolutely,  that  they  need  never  come  and  see  us. 
Choose  your  own  fashion,  my  Ba,  and  tell  me  how  many 
you  require. 

I  only  saw  my  cousin  for  a  few  minutes  afterward — he 
came  up  in  a  cab  immediately — he  understood  all  there 
was  need  he  should.  You  to  be  '  uncourteous '  to  any- 
body !  no,  no — sweetest !  But  I  will  thank  him  as  you  bid, 
knowing  the  value  of  Ba's  thanks !  For  the  prying  penny- 
a-liners  .  .  why,  trust  to  Providence — we  must !  I  do  not 
apprehend  much  danger  .  . 

Dearest,  I  woke  this  morning  quite  ivell — quite  free  from 
the  sensation  in  the  head.  I  have  not  woke  so,  for  two 
years  perhaps — what  have  you  been  doing  to  me? 

My  father  and  mother  and  sister  love  you  thoroughly  — 
my  mother  said  this  morning,  in  my  room,  '  If  I  were  as  I 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAKttETT  543 

have  been,  I  would  try  and  write  to  her  ' — I  said,  '  I  will 
tell  her  what  I  know  you  feel.'  She  is  much  better — (I 
hear  her  voice  while  I  write  .  .  below  the  open  window) . 
Poor  Pritchard  came  home  from  the  country  on  Friday 
night — late — and  posted  here  immediately — he  was  vexed 
to  be  made  understand  that  there  was  some  way  in  which 
he  might  have  served  me  and  did  not.  It  was  kind,  very 
kind  of  Wilson. 

I  will  leave  off — to  resume  to-morrow.  Bless  you,  my 
very  own,  only  Ba — my  pride,  and  joy,  and  utter  comfort. 
I  kiss  you  and  am  ever  your  own. 

R.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  14,  1846.] 

You  go  on  to  comfort  me,  love — bless  you  for  it.  I  col- 
lect from  the  letter  that  you  are  recovering  from  the  pain 
and  excitement ;  that  is  happy !  I  waited  to  hear  from 
you,  my  own  Ba,  and  will  only  write  a  word — then  go  out 
— I  think. 

Do  you  feel  so,  through  the  anxieties  and  trouble  of 
this  situation?  You  take  my  words  from  me — / '  exult '  in 
the  irrevocability  of  this  precious  bestowal  of  yourself  on 
me — come  what  will  my  life  has  borne  flower  and  fruit 
— it  is  a  glorious,  successful,  felicitous  life,  I  thank  God 
and  you. 

All  has  been  for  the  best,  you  will  see,  even  in  these 
apparently  untoward  circumstances — this  particular  act  was 
precipitated  by  them,  certainly — but  it  is  done,  and  well 
done.  Does  it  not  simplify  our  arrangements  that  this  is 
done?  And  surely  there  was  every  justification  for  the 
precipitancy  in  that  proposed  journey,  and  uncertain 
return, — (in  Winter  to  a  freshly-painted  house!)  But 
every  moment  of  my  life  brings  fresh  proof  to  me  of  the 
intervention  of  Providence.  How  the  natural  course  would 
have  embarrassed  us ! — any  consultation  with  you  respect- 


544   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING   [Sept.  14 

ing  your  own  feelings  on  a  removal  at  present — any  desire 
to  gratify  them  .  . 

Will  not  Mr.  Kenyon  understand  at  least?  Would  it 
not  be  well  to  ascertain  his  precise  address  in  the  country, 
— so  as  to  send  your  letter  there,  before  the  newspaper 
reaches  him, — or  any  other  person's  version?  I  will  send 
you  my  letter  to  accompany  yours — just  a  few  words  to 
explain  why  he  was  not  consulted — (by  me)  .  .  what  is 
strictly  my  oivn  part  to  be  excused.  What  do  you  intend 
to  do  about  Mrs.  Jameson?  I  only  want  to  know  in  the 
case  of  our  mutual  friends,  of  course,  so  as  to  avoid  the 
necessity  of  going  over  the  same  ground  in  our  letters. 

I  confided  my  approaching  marriage  to  that  kind  old 
Pritchard,  lest  he  should  be  too  much  wounded — if  his  sur- 
prise was  considerable,  his  delight  kept  due  proportion. 
You  may  depend  on  his  secrecy— I  need  not  say,  I  men- 
tioned the  fact  simply  .  .  without  a  word  about  any  cir- 
cumstances. If  your  father  could  be  brought  to  allow  the 
matter  to  pass  as  indifferent  to  him  .  .  what  he  did  not 
choose  to  interfere  with,  however  little  he  approved  it, — we 
should  be  fortunate?  Perhaps  pride,  if  no  kinder  feeling, 
may  induce  him  to  that. 

My  family  all  love  you,  dearest — you  cannot  conceive 
my  father  and  mother's  childlike  faith  in  goodness — and 
my  sister  is  very  high-spirited,  and  quick  of  apprehension 
— so  as  to  seize  the  true  point  of  the  case  at  once.  I  am 
in  great  hopes  you  will  love  them  all,  and  understand  them. 
Last  night,  I  asked  my  father,  who  was  absorbed  over 
some  old  book,  i  if  he  should  not  be  glad  to  see  his  new 
daughter? ' — to  which  he,  starting,  replied  '  Indeed  I 
shall ! '  with  such  a  fervour  as  to  make  my  mother  laugh — 
not  abated  by  his  adding,  '  And  how  I  should  be  glad  of  her 
seeing  Sis ! '  his  other  daughter,  Sarianna,  to  wit — who 
was  at  church. 

Trifles,  trifles,  only  commended  to  your  dear,  affection- 
ate heart.  Do  you  confide  in  me,  Ba?  Well,  you  shall! 
— in  my  love,  in  my  pride,  in  my  heart's  purposes;   but 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  545 

not  in  anything  else.  Give  me  your  counsel  at  all  times, 
beloved :  I  am  wholly  open  to  your  desires,  and  teaching, 
and  direction.  Try  what  you  can  make  of  me, — if  you  can 
in  any  way  justify  your  choice  to  the  world.  So  /  would 
gladly  counsel  you  on  any  point !  See  how  I  read  lectures 
about  Flush !  Only  give  a  kiss  before  beginning,  and 
promise  me  another  upon  my  profiting, — and  I  shall  be 
twice  blessed  beside  the  profit.  So,  my  counsel  being  done, 
here  begin  the  kisses,  you  dear  dear  Ba  of  mine.  Bless 
you  ever,  Ba !  I  continue  quite  ivell — is  it  not  strange  .  . 
or  is  it?  And  my  mother  is  better  decidedly.  When  she 
comes  back  from  town  (where  she  and  my  sister  are  caring 
for  me)  I  will  tell  her  what  you  bade  me  promise  to  give 
her — in  return  for  what  she  has  long  given  you.  Good- 
bye, my  own — very  own  Ba,  from  your  R. 

E.  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

Monday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  14,  1846.] 

Ever  dearest,  this  one  word  goes  to  you  to  say  about 
Mr.  Kenyon's  letter — oh,  do  not  send  any  letter,  dearest, 
till  we  are  out  of  hearing  of  the  answer.  It  terrifies  me  to 
think  of  your  sending  a  letter,  perhaps,  without  delay. 
Do  let  no  letter  nor  intimation  be  given  till  the  very  last. 
Remember  that  I  shall  be  hilled — it  will  be  so  infinitely 
worse  than  you  can  have  an  idea. 

Afterwards — yes ! — you  will,  for  my  sake,  forget  some 
natural  pride,  as  I,  for  yours,  have  forgotten  some  as 
natural  apprehensiveness.  That  kindness,  I  expected  from 
you,  .  .  and  now  accept  .  .  thanking  you,  dearest.  In 
the  meanwhile,  there  seems  to  remain  the  dreadful  danger 
of  the  newspapers — we  must  trust,  as  you  say. 

Your  mother's  goodness  touches  me  very  deeply.     I  am 
grateful  to  her  and  to  all  your  family,  beyond  any  power 
of  mine  to  express  my  feelings.     Let  me  be  silent  there- 
fore, instead  of  trying. 
Vol.  II.— 35 


546   THE  LETTERS  OE  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  14 

As  to  the  important  business  of  the  cards,  you  know  I 
have  heard  the  whole  theory  of  etiquette  lately  on  that 
subject,  and  you  must  not  think  of  putting  any  '  At  home ' 
anywhere,  or  any  other  thing  in  the  place  of  it.  A  Fellows 
is  an  authority  in  Asia  Minor,  but  for  the  minora  of  the 
cards,  not  at  all.  Put  simply  the  names,  as  you  say,  on 
one  card,  only  without  abbreviation  or  initial,  and  no  inti- 
mation of  address,  which  is  not  necessary,  and  would  be 
under  our  circumstances  quite  wrong.  Then  I  had  better 
perhaps  send  you  a  list  of  names  and  addresses.  But  for 
this,  enough  time. 

They  hasten  me — I  must  go.  Not  from  the  thought 
however  of  you  .  .  being  your  very  own  Ba. 

I  shall  write  of  course  in  the  evening  again. 

K  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Monday  Evening. 
[Post-mark,  September  15,  1846.] 

First,  God  is  to  be  thanked  for  this  great  joy  of  hear- 
ing that  you  are  better,  my  ever  dearest — it  is  a  joy  that 
floats  over  all  the  other  emotions.  Dearest,  I  am  so  glad ! 
I  had  feared  that  excitement's  telling  on  you  quite  in 
another  way.  When  the  whole  is  done,  and  we  have  left 
England  and  the  talkers  thereof  behind  our  backs,  you  will 
be  well,  steadfastly  and  satisfactorily,  I  do  trust.  In  the 
meantime,  there  seems  so  much  to  do,  that  I  am  frightened 
to  look  towards  the  heaps  of  it.  As  to  accoutrements, 
everything  has  been  arranged  as  simply  as  possible  that 
way — but  still  there  are  necessities — and  the  letters,  the 
letters !  I  am  paralysed  when  I  think  of  having  to  write 
such  words  as  .  .  '  Papa,  I  am  married;  I  hope  you  will 
not  be  too  displeased.  '  Ah,  poor  Papa !  You  are  too 
sanguine  if  you  expect  any  such  calm  from  him  as  an 
assumption  of  indifference  would  imply.  To  the  utmost, 
he  will  be  angry, — he  will  cast  me  off  as  far  from  him. 
Well — there  is  no  comfort  in  such  thoughts.     How  I  felt 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BAEKETT  547 

to-night  when  I  saw  him  at  seven  o'clock,  for  the  first  time 
since  Friday,  and  the  event  of  Saturday  !  He  spoke  kindly 
too,  and  asked  me  how  I  was.  Once  I  heard  of  his  saying 
of  me  that  I  was  '  the  purest  woman  he  ever  knew, ' — which 
made  me  smile  at  the  moment,  or  laugh  I  believe,  outright, 
because  I  understood  perfectly  what  he  meant  by  that — viz 
— that  I  had  not  troubled  him  with  the  iniquity  of  love 
affairs,  or  any  impropriety  of  seeming  to  think  about  being 
married.  But  now  the  whole  sex  will  go  down  with  me  tq 
the  perdition  of  faith  in  any  of  us.  See  the  effect  of  my 
wickedness ! — '  Those  women ! ' 

But  we  will  submit,  dearest.  I  will  put  myself  under 
his  feet,  to  be  forgiven  a  little,  .  .  enough  to  be  taken  up 
again  into  his  arms.  I  love  him — he  is  my  father — he  has 
good  and  high  qualities  after  all :  he  is  my  father  above 
all.  And  you,  because  you  are  so  generous  and  tender  to 
me,  will  let  me,  you  say,  and  help  me  to  try  to  win  back 
the  alienated  affection— for  which,  I  thank  you  and  bless 
you, — I  did  not  thank  you  enough  this  morning.  Surely  I 
may  say  to  him,  too,  .  .  '  With  the  exception  of  this  act, 
I  have  submitted  to  the  least  of  your  wishes  all  my  life 
long.  Set  the  life  against  the  act,  and  forgive  me,  for  the 
sake  of  the  daughter  you  once  loved. '  Surely  I  may  say 
that, — and  then  remind  him  of  the  long  suffering  I  have 
suffered, — and  entreat  him  to  pardon  the  happiness  which 
has  come  at  last. 

And  he  will  wish  in  return,  that  I  had  died  years  ago ! 
For  the  storm  will  come  and  endure.  And  at  last,  perhaps, 
he  will  forgive  us — it  is  my  hope. 

I  accede  to  all  you  say  of  Mr.  Kenyon.  I  will  ask  him 
for  his  address  in  the  county,  and  we  will  send,  when  the 
moment  comes,  our  letters  together. 

From  Mrs.  Jameson  I  had  the  letter  I  enclose,  this 
morning,  (full  of  kindness — is  it  not?)  and  another  really 
as  kind  from  Miss  Bay  ley,  who  begs  me,  if  I  cannot  go  to 
Italy,  to  go  to  Hastings  and  visit  her.  To  both  I  must 
write  at  some  length.     Will  you  write  to  Mrs.  Jameson, 


548   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  15 

besides  what  I  shall  write?  And  what  are  we  to  say  as  to 
travelling?  As  she  is  in  Paris,  perhaps  we  may  let  her 
have  the  solution  of  our  problem  sooner  than  the  near 
people.  May  we?  shall  we?  Yet  we  dare  not,  I  suppose, 
talk  too  historically  of  what  happened  last  Saturday.  It 
is  like  the  dates  in  the  newspaper — advertisements,  which 
we  must  eschew,  as  you  observe. 

Other  things,  too,  you  observe,  my  beloved,  which  are 
altogether  out  of  date.  In  your  ways  towards  me,  you 
have  acted  throughout  too  much  '  the  woman's  part,'  as 
that  is  considered.  You  loved  me  because  I  was  lower 
than  others,  that  you  might  be  generous  and  raise  me  up : 
— very  characteristic  for  a  woman  (in  her  ideal  standard) 
but  quite  wrong  for  a  man,  as  again  and  again  I  use  to 
signify  to  you,  Robert — but  you  went  on  and  did  it  all  the 
same.  And  now,  you  still  go  on — you  persist — you  will  be 
the  woman  of  the  play,  to  the  last;  let  the  prompter 
prompt  ever  so  against  you.  You  are  to  do  everything  I 
like,  instead  of  my  doing  what  you  like,  .  .  and  to  '  hon- 
our and  obey  '  me,  in  spite  of  what  was  in  the  vows  last 
Saturday, — is  that  the  way  of  it  and  of  you?  and  are  vows 
to  be  kept  so,  pray?  after  that  fashion?  Then,  don't  put 
'  at  home '  at  the  corner  of  the  cards,  dearest !  It  is  my 
command ! 

And  forgive  the  inveterate  jesting,  which  jests  with  eyes 
full  of  tears.  I  love  you — I  bless  God  for  you.  You 
are  too  good  for  me,  as  always  I  knew.  I  look  up  to  you 
continually. 

It  is  best,  I  continue  to  think,  that  you  should  not 
come  here — best  for  you,  because  the  position,  if  you 
were  to  try  it,  would  be  less  tolerable  than  ever — and  best 
for  both  of  us,  that  in  case  the  whole  truth  were  ever  dis- 
covered (I  mean,  of  the  previous  marriage)  we  might  be 
able  to  call  it  simply  an  act  in  order  to  security.  I  don't 
know  how  to  put  my  feeling  into  words,  but  I  do  seem  to 
feel  that  it  would  be  better,  and  less  offensive  to  those 
whom  we  offend  at  any  rate,  to  avoid  all  possible  remark 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  549 

on  this  point.     It  seems  better  to  a  sort  of  instinct  I  have. 

Then,  if  I  see  you — farewell,  the  letter-writing.  Oh 
no— there  will  be  time  enough  when  we  are  on  the  rail- 
way ! — We  shall  talk  then. 

Ah — you  say  such  things  to  me !  Dearest,  dearestestf  / 
— And  you  do  not  start  at  that  word,  '  Irrevocable,'  as  I 
have  had  fancies  that  you  might,  when  the  time  came! 
But  you  may  recover,  by  putting  out  your  hand,  all  you 
have  given  me,  .  .  nearly  all.  I  never,  never,  being  my- 
self, could  willingly  vex  you,  torment  you.  If  I  approach 
to  it,  you  will  tell  me.  I  will  confide  in  you,  to  that  end 
also.     Dearest. 

And  your  father's  goodness,  and  the  affectionateness  of 
them  all.  When  they  shall  have  learnt  most  that  I  am  not 
worthy  of  you,  they  will  have  learnt  besides  that  I  can  be 
grateful  to  them  and  you.  Certainly  I  am  capable,  I  hope, 
of  loving  them  all,  well  and  with  appreciation.  And  then 
.  .  imagine  the  comfort  I  take  to  the  deepest  of  my  heart 
from  these  hands  held  out  to  me  !  For  your  sake !  Yes, 
for  your  sake  entirely ! — and,  so,  the  more  dearly  comfort- 
ing to 

Your  very  own  Ba. 

There  is  still  difficulty  about  the  house.  They  think  of 
Tunbridge  Wells. 

B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

Tuesday  Morning. 
[Post-mark,  September  15,  1846.] 

My  own  Ba,  could  you  think  me  capable  of  such  a  step? 
I  forget  what  I  exactly  said  in  the  first  letter,  but  in  the 
second,  which  you  have  received  by  this,  I  know  there  is 
mention  made  of  your  account  which  is  to  accompany  mine. 
You  never  quite  understood,  I  think,  my  feeling  about  Mr. 
Kenyon  and  desire  to  tell  him  earlier.  In  the  first  place, 
at  the  very  beginning,  he  seemed  to  stand  (as  he  did)  in 
ploser  connection  with  you  than  any  other  person  I  could 


550   THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  15 

communicate  with, — therefore  to  represent,  in  some  degree, 
your  clear  self  in  the  worldly  sense,  and  be  able  to  impose 
on  me  any  conditions  &c.  which  your  generous  nature 
might  be  silent  on,  and  my  ignorance  and  excitement  over- 
look :  then  there  was  another  reason,  the  natural  one,  of 
our  own  .  .  his  friendship,  rather,  for  me,  and  the  circum- 
stance of  his  having  in  a  manner  introduced  me  to  your 
acquaintance, — at  all  events,  facilitated  my  introduction, — 
and  so  being  after  a  fashion  responsible  in  some  degree  for 
my  conduct.  These  two  reasons,  added  to  a  general  real 
respect  for  his  circumspection  and  sagacity,  and  a  desire 
to  make  both  of  them  instruct  me  in  the  way  of  doing  you 
good.  But  you  effectually  convinced  me  that  in  neither 
case  would  the  benefit  derivable  balance  the  certain  injury, 
or  at  least,  annoyance,  to  himself — while  you  showed  me 
that  I  should  not  be  so  truly  serving  you,  as  I  had  in- 
tended, by  the  plans  I  used  to  turn  over  in  my  mind. 

In  brief,  it  was  written  that  your  proof  of  love  and  trust 
to  me  was  to  be  complete,  the  completest — and  I  could  not 
but  be  proud  and  submit — and  a  few  words  will  explain 
the  mere  sin  against  friendship.  I  quite,  quite  feel  as  you 
feel,  nor  ever  had  the  least  intention  of  writing  .  .  that  is, 
of  sending  any  letter, — till  the  very  last.     Be  sure  of  it. 

For  the  cards,  I  have  just  given  orders,  as  you  desire 
and  as  I  entirely  agree.  The  notion  of  a  word  about  our 
not  being  in  England  was  only  a  fancy  for  your  family's  sake 
— just  to  save  people's  application  to  them,  to  know  what 
had  become  of  us — and  I  had  heard  Mr.  Kenyon  commend 
the  considerateness  of  those  '  Lydian  measures  '  .  .  albeit 
there  was  .  .  or  narrowly  escaped  being — an  awful  over- 
sight of  the  traveller's  which  would  have  made  him  the  sad 
hero  of  a  merry  story  for  ever  .  .  as  I  will  tell  you  some 
day.  If  you  will  send  the  addresses,  at  any  time,  that 
trouble  will  be  over.  In  all  these  mighty  matters,  be  sure 
I  shall  never  take  the  least  step  without  consulting  you— 
will  you  draw  up  the  advertisement,  please?  I  will  supply 
the  clergyman's  name  &c.  &c. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  551 

I  shall  not  see  one  friend  more  before  I  leave  with  you. 
So  that  nobody  needs  divine  that  since  the  12th,  we  have 
not  been  at  Margate — seeking  '  food  for  the  mind ' — 

llf  A.M. 

Dearest,  I  agree  to  all — I  will  not  see  you,  for  those 
reasons.  I  think,  as  you  may,  that  it  will  be  a  point  in 
excuse  of  the  precipitancy  that  a  removal  was  threatened 
for  'next  Monday  perhaps'  .  .  which,  finding  us*  unpre- 
pared, would  have  been  ruinous.  Say  all  you  would  have 
me  say  to  your  father, — no  concession  shall  be  felt  by  the 
side  of  your  love.  I  will  write  a  few  words  to  Mrs.  J. — 
her  kindness  is  admirable  and  deserves  the  attention.  For 
the  date, — you  will  have  seen  the  precautions  I  take, — I 
hope  to  see  nobody  know;  but  I  don't  know  that  it  will  be 
necessary  to  suppress  it  in  the  advertisement,  if  we  can 
leave  England  by  the  end  of  the  week,  as  I  hope  .  .  do 
you  not  hope,  too?  For  I  see  announcements,  in  to-day's 
Times,  of  marriages  on  the  8th  and  9th  and  our  silence  on 
that  particular  might  be  only  the  beginning  of  some  mys- 
tery .  .  as  if  it  had  happened  half  a  year  ago,  for  instance. 
Beside,  your  relations  will  examine  the  register.  All  rests 
with  you,  however — and  will  rest,  Ba !  I  shall  ask  you  to 
do  no  more  of  my  business  that  I  can  manage  myself ;  but 
where  I  can  not  manage  .  .  why,  then  you  shall  think  for 
me, — that  is  my  command! 

I  suppose  when  a  man  buys  a  spinning-machine  he 
loses  dignity  because  he  lets  it  weave  stockings, — does  not 
keep  on  with  his  clumsy  fingers !  No,  I  will  retain  my 
honours,  be  certain,— you  shall  say,  Ego  et  'rex  meus  like 
Wolsey — or  rather,  like  dear,  dear  Ba — like  yourself  I  will 
ever  ivorship  !  See  the  good  of  taking  up  arms  against  me 
out  of  that  service !  If  you  '  honour  and  obey  '  me,  '  with 
my  body  I  thee  worship  ' — my  best,  dearest,  sweetest  Ba, 
and  that  I  have  avowed  thus  '  irrevocably  ' — is  the  heart's 
delight  of  your  own  R. 


552   THE  LETTEKS  OF  BOBERT  BBOWNING  [Sept.  16 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Tuesday. 
[Post-mark,  September  16,  1846.] 

Dearest,  you  were  in  the  right  as  usual,  and  I  in  a 
fright  as  sometimes.  I  took  a  mere  fancy  into  my  head 
about  your  writing  to  Mr.  Kenyon.  To-day  he  came,  and 
I  did  not  see  him — on  the  ground  of  a  headache,  which, 
though  real,  was  not  really  sufficient  of  itself  to  keep  me 
from  seeing  him,  if  I  had  not  distrusted  my  self-control — 
so  I  did  not  see  him.  To-morrow  he  goes  away.  His  let- 
ters will  of  course  be  made  to  follow  him,  and  we  may 
easily  precede  the  newspapers  by  a  day  or  two. 

As  for  the  advertisements,  you  quite  amuse  me  by  tell- 
ing me  to  compose  an  advertisement.  How  should  I  know 
better  than  you,  dearest,  or  as  well  even?  All  I  intermed- 
dle with  willingly  is  the  matter  of  the  date — although 
there  is  something  in  what  you  say  about  the  mystery,  and 
the  idea  of  our  being  six  months  married — still  it  is  our 
disquieted  conscience  that  gives  us  such  thoughts — and 
when  the  advertisement  appears  and  the  cards  come  out  so 
very  properly,  people  will  not  have  enough  imagination  to 
apprehend  a  single  mystery  in  the  case :  and  the  omission 
of  the  date  will  not  be  so  singular  .  .  will  it?  On  the 
other  hand  I  apprehend  evil  from  the  date  of  the  marriage 
being  known.  One  of  my  brothers  may  be  sent  to  examine 
the  register,  but  would  not  betray  the  fact  in  question,  1 
think,  to  my  father ;  would  not,  I  am  certain,  willingly  give 
cause  for  additional  irritation  against  me.  But  if  the  date 
be  publicly  announced,  Papa  must  know  it  and  most  of  my 
personal  friends  will  be  sure  to  know  it.  I  have  written 
letters  and  seen  people  since  the  twelfth  .  .  Mr.  Kenyon 
on  Sunday,  Miss  Bordman  on  Monday.  Moreover  Papa 
would  be  exposed  to  unpleasant  observations — he  going 
every  day  among  his  City  friends,  and  on  Saturday  among 
the  rest.  What  quantities  of  good  reasons,  .  .  till  you  are 
tired  of  them  and  me ! 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  553 

Would  you  put  it  this  way  .  .  At  such  a  church,  by 
such  a  minister,  Robert  Browning  Esquire,  of  New  Cross, 
author  of  '  Paracelsus, '  to  Elizabeth  Barrett,  eldest  daugh- 
ter of  Edward  Moulton  Barrett  Esquire  of  Wiinpole  Street. 
Would  you  put  it  so?  I  do  not  understand  really,  .  .  and 
whether  you  should  be  specified  as  the  author  of  '  Paracel- 
sus '  .  .  but,  for  me,  it  ought  to  be,  I  think,  simply  as  I 
have  written  it.  Oh,  and  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  what  we 
did  on  Saturday  is  quite  invalid,  so  that  you  may  give  me 
up  now  if  you  like — it  isn't  too  late.  You  gave  me  a  wrong 
name — Moulton  is  no  Christian  name  of  mine.  Moulton 
Barrett  is  our  family  name;  Elizabeth  Barrett,  my  Chris- 
tian name — Behold  and  see ! 

I  will  send  the  list  if  I  can  have  time  to-night  to  write 
it — but  the  haste,  the  hurry— do  you  think,  when  in  your 
right  mind,  of  getting  away  this  week?  Think  of  the 
work  before  us !  Next  Monday  is  the  day  fixed  for  the  gen- 
eral departure  to  a  house  taken  at  Little  Bookham  or 
Hookham  .  .  what  is  it?  Well — we  must  think.  Tell  me 
when  you  want  me  to  go.  I  might  go  from  the  new  house, 
perhaps.  But  you  will  think,  dearest,  and  tell  me.  Tell 
me  first,  though,  how  your  head  continues  or  begins  again 
.  .  for  I  fear  that  the  good  news  is  too  sudden  to  last  long 
— I  fear. 

Thankful,  thankful  I  shall  be  when  we  are  gone  out  of 
reach  of  evil,  when  I  shall  have  heard  that  my  poor  dear- 
est Papa  is  only  angry  with  me,  and  not  sorry  because  of 
me,  and  that  Henrietta  and  Arabel  are  not  too  miserable. 
They  come  between  me  and  the  thought  of  you  often — but 
I  do  not,  for  that,  love  you  less — oh  no.  You  are  best  and 
dearest  in  saying  what  you  say — only,  observe,  there  is 
not  any  practicable  '  concession  '  now  for  you.  All  you 
can  do  now,  is  what  you  will  do  .  .  in  being  tolerant,  and 
gentle,  for  my  sake.     My  own  dearest,  I  am  your 

Ba. 

The  list  to-morrow. 


554  THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  16 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Wednesday. 
[Post-mark,  September  16,  1846.] 

Ever  dearest,  you  are  right  about  the  date  .  .  so  it  shall 
be — and  so  the  advertisement  shall  run,  save  and  except 
the  avowal  of  ■  Paracelsus '  .  .  I  avow  you,  and  to  add 
another  title  of  honour  would  succeed  no  better  than  in 
Dalhousie's  case,  who  was  '  God  of  War  and  Lieutenant- 
general  to  the  Earl  of  Mar. '  I  wanted  the  description  &c. 
of  your  father.  What  a  strange  mistake  I  made — (but 
as  for  invalidation,  oh  no !) — I  save  your  every  word  and 
then  apply  them  thus!  (In  to-day's  Times  is  a  notice 
without  a  date  .  .  not  looking  at  all  singular.  It  is  far 
better) . 

It  is  absolutely  for  yourself  to  decide  on  the  day  and 
the  mode — if  for  no  other  reason,  because  I  am  quite 
ready,  and  shall  have  no  kind  of  difficulty ;  while  you  have 
every  kind.  Make  the  arrangements  that  promise  most 
comfort  to  yourself.  Observe  the  packets  and  alter  the 
route  if  necessary.  There  is  one  from  Brighton  to  Dieppe 
every  day,  for  instance  .  .  but  then  the  getting  to  Rouen ! 
The  Havre-boat  leaves  Southampton,  Wednesdays  and  Sat- 
urdays— and  Portsmouth,  Holidays  and  Thursdays.  The 
boat  from  London,  Thursdays  and  Saturdays  at  9  A.M. 

I  do  not  know  where  '  Bookham  '  is — you  must  decide 
.  .  I  am  sure  you  will  be  anxious  to  get  away. 

The  business  of  the  letters  will  grow  less  difficult  when 
once  begun — see  if  it  will  not !  and  in  these  four  or  five 
days  whole  epics  might  be  written,  much  more  letters. 
Have  you  arranged  all  with  Wilson?  Take,  of  course,  the 
simplest  possible  wardrobe  &c. — so  as  to  reduce  our  luggage 
to  the  very  narrowest  compass.  The  expense — (beside  the 
common  sense  of  a  little  luggage) — is  considerable — every 
ounce  being  paid  for.  Let  us  treat  our  journey  as  a  mere 
journey — we  can  return  for  what  else  we  want,  or  get  it 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  555 

sent,  or  procure  it  abroad.  I  shall  take  just  a  portmanteau 
and  carpet  bag.  I  think  the  fewer  books  we  take  the  bet- 
ter; they  take  up  room— and  the  wise  way  always  seemed 
to  me  to  read  in  rooms  at  home,  and  open  one's  eyes  and 
see  abroad.  A  critic  somewhere  mentioned  that  as  my 
characteristic — were  two  other  poets  he  named  placed  in 
novel  circumstances  .  .  in  a  great  wood,  for  instance,  Mr. 
Trench  would  begin  opening  books  to  see  how  woods  were 
treated  of  .  .  the  other  man  would  set  to  writing  poetry 
forthwith,  from  his  old  stock  of  associations,  on  the  new 
impulse — and  E.  B.  would  sit  still  and  learn  how  to  write 
after!  A  pretty  compliment,  I  thought  that! — But  seri- 
ously there  must  be  a  great  library  at  Pisa  .  .  (with  that 
university !)  and  abroad  they  are  delighted  to  facilitate 
such  matters  .  .  I  have  read  in  a  chamber  of  the  Doges' 
palace  at  Venice  painted  all  over  by  Tintoretto,  walls  and 
ceiling — and  at  Rome  there  is  a  library  with  a  learned 
priest  always  kept  ready  '  to  solve  any  doubt  that  may 
arise!'  Murray's  book  you  have,  I  think?  Any  guide- 
books &c. 

Be  sure,  dearest,  I  will  do  my  utmost  to  conciliate  your 
father:  sometimes  I  could  not  but  speak  impatiently  to 
you  of  him  .  .  that  was  while  you  were  in  his  direct  power 
— now  there  is  no  need  of  a  word  in  any  case  .  .  I  shall  be 
silent  if  the  worst  imaginable  happens ;  and  if  anything  bet- 
ter, most  grateful.  You  do  not  need  to  remind  me  he  is 
your  father  .  .  I  shall  be  proud  to  say  mine  too.  Then,  he 
said  that  of  you — for  which  I  love  him — love  the  full 
prompt  justice  of  that  ascription  of  '  perfect  purity  ' — it  is 
another  voice  responding  to  mine,  confirming  mine. 

Good-bye,  dearest  dearest ;  I  continue  quite  well  .  .  I 
thank  God,  as  you  do,  and  see  his  hand  in  it.  My  poor 
mother  suffers  greatly,  but  is  no  worse  .  .  rather,  better  I 
hope.  They  (all  here)  will  leave  town  for  some  quiet  place 
at  the  beginning  of  October  for  some  three  weeks  at  least. 
Dear,  kind  souls  they  are. 

Kiss  me  as  I  kiss  you,  dearest  Ba.     I  can  bring  you  no 


556   THE  LETTEKS  OF  EOBEET  BBOWNING  [Sept.  16 

flowers  but  I  pluck  this  bud  and  send  it  with  all  affection- 
ate devotion. 

Your  own 

E.  B. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

[Post-mark,  September  17,  1846.] 

Dearest,  the  general  departure  from  this  house  takes 
place  on  Monday — and  the  house  at  Little  Bookham  is  six 
miles  from  the  nearest  railroad,  and  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  Leather  head  where  a  coach  runs.  Now  you  are  to 
judge.  Certainly  if  I  go  with  you  on  Saturday  I  shall  not 
have  half  the  letters  written— you,  who  talk  so  largely  of 
epic  poems,  have  not  the  least  imagination  of  my  state  of 
mind  and  spirits.  I  began  to  write  a  letter  to  Papa  this 
morning,  and  could  do  nothing  but  cry,  and  looked  so  pale 
thereupon,  that  everybody  wondered  what  could  be  the 
matter.  Oh — quite  well  I  am  now,  and  I  only  speak  of 
myself  in  that  way  to  show  you  how  the  inspiration  is  by 
no  means  sufficient  for  epic  poems.  Still,  I  may  certainly 
write  the  necessary  letters,  .  .  and  do  the  others  on  the 
road  .  .  could  I,  do  you  think?  I  would  rather  have 
waited — indeed  rather — only  it  may  be  difficult  to  leave 
Bookham  .  .  yet  possible — so  tell  me  what  you  would  have 
me  do. 

Wilson  and  I  have  a  light  box  and  a  carpet  bag  between 
us — and  I  will  be  docile  about  the  books,  dearest.  Do  you 
take  a  desk?     Had  I  better  not,  I  wonder? 

Then  for  box  and  carpet  bag  .  .  Remember  that  we 
cannot  take  them  out  of  the  house  with  us.  We  must  send 
them  the  evening  before — Friday  evening,  if  we  went  on 
Saturday  .  .  and  where?  Have  you  a  friend  anywhere, 
to  whose  house  they  might  be  sent,  or  could  they  go  direct 
to  the  railroad  office — and  what  office?  In  that  case  they 
should  have  your  name  on  them,  should  they  not? 

Now  think  for  me,  ever  dearest — and  tell  me  what  you 
do  not  tell  me  .  .  that  you  continue  better.     Ah  no — you 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  557 

are  ill  again — or  you  would  not  wait  to  be  told  to  tell  me. 
And  the  dear,  dear  little  bud! — I  shall  keep  it  to  the  end 
of  my  life,  if  you  love  me  so  long,  .  .  or  not,  sir !  I  thank 
you,  dearest. 

Your  mother! — I  am  very,  very  sorry.  Would  it  be 
better  and  kinder  to  wait  on  her  account? — tell  me  that  too. 

Yes,  they  are  perfectly  kind.  We  must  love  them  well: 
— and  1  shall,  I  am  sure. 

Mr.  Kenyon  sends  the  '  Fawn, '  wliicli  is  Landor's  Fawn, 
and  desires  me  to  send  it  to  you  when  I  have  done  with  it. 
As  if  I  could  read  a  word !  He  directs  me  to  write  to  him 
to  Taunton,  Somersetshire.     May  God  bless  you,  beloved. 

No  more  to-night  from  your  very  own 

Ba. 

Are  not  passengers  allowed  to  carry  a  specific  propor- 
tion of  luggage?  What  do  you  mean  then,  by  paying  for 
every  ounce?  As  to  Dieppe,  the  diligence  would  be  more 
fatiguing  than  the  river,  and,  without  strong  reasons,  one 
would  prefer  of  course  the  Havre  plan.  Still  I  am  not 
afraid  of  either.     Think. 

You  might  put  in  the  newspaper  .  .  of  Wimpole  Street 
and  Jamaica,  or  .  .  and  Cinnamon  Hill,  Jamaica.  That 
is  right  and  I  thought  of  it  at  first — only  stopped  .  .  seem- 
ing to  wish  to  have  as  little  about  poor  Papa  as  possible. 
Do  as  you  think  best  now. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

[Post-mark,  September  17,  1846.] 
My  only  sweetest,  I  will  write  just  a  word  to  catch  the 
earlier  post, — time  pressing.  Bless  you  for  all  you  suffer 
.  .  I  hiow  it  though  it  would  be  very  needless  to  call  your 
attention  to  the  difficulties.  I  know  much,  if  not  all,  and 
can  only  love  and  admire  you, — not  help,  alas! 

Surely  these  difficulties  will  multiply,  if  you  go  to 
Bookham — the  way  will  be  to  leave  at  once.  The  letters 
may  easily  be  written  during  the  journey  .  .  at  Orleans, 


558   THE  LETTEES  OF  EOBEBT  BEOWNIKG  [Sept.  17 

for  example.  But  now, — you  propose  Saturday  .  .  nothing 
leaves  Southampton  according  to  to-day's  advertisement  till 
Tuesday  .  .  the  days  seemed  changed  to  Tuesdays  and 
Fridays.  To-morrow  at  8J  p.m.  and  Friday  the  22,  10^. 
Provoking !  I  will  go  to  town  directly  to  the  railway  office 
and  enquire  particularly- — getting  the  time-table  also. 
Under  these  circumstances,  we  have  only  the  choice  of 
Dieppe  (as  needing  the  shortest  diligence-journey) — or  the 
Sunday  morning  Havre-packet,  at  9  a.m. — which  you  do 
not  consider  practicable :  though  it  would,  I  think,  take  us 
the  quickliest  out  of  all  the  trouble.  I  will  let  you  know 
all  particulars  in  a  note  to-night  .  .  it  shall  reach  you  to- 
night. 

If  we  went  from  London  only,  the  luggage  could  be 
sent  here  or  in  any  case,  perhaps  .  .  as  one  fly  will  carry 
them  with  me  and  mine,  and  save  possibility  of  delay. 

I  am  very  well,  dearest  dearest — my  mother  no  worse, 
better,  perhaps — she  is  out  now.  Our  staying  and  getting 
into  trouble  would  increase  her  malady. 

As  you  leave  it  to  me, — the  name,  and  '  Wimpole  St.' 
will  do.  Jamaica  sounds  in  the  wrong  direction,  does  it 
not?  and  the  other  place  is  distinctive  enough. 

Take  no  desk  .  .  I  will  take  a  large  one — take  nothing 
you  can  leave — but  secure  letters  &c.  I  will  take  out  a 
passport.  Did  you  not  tell  me  roughly  at  how  much  you 
estimated  our  expenses  for  the  journey?  Because  I  will 
take  about  that  much,  and  get  Rothschild's  letter  of  credit 
for  Leghorn.  One  should  avoid  carrying  money  about 
with  one. 

All  this  in  such  haste !  Bless  you,  my  dearest  dearest 
Ba 

Your  B. 

All  was  right  in  the  licence,  and  Certificate  and  Regis- 
ter— the  whole  name  is  there,  E.B.M.B.  The  clergyman 
made  the  mistake  in  not  having  the  two  names,  but  all  runs 
right  to  read  .  .  the  essential  thing. 


1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  559 


B.  B.  to  K  B.  B. 

5  o'clock. 
[Post-mark,  September  17,  1846.] 

My  own  Ba,  I  believe,  or  am  sure  the  mistake  has  been 
mine — in  the  flurry  I  noted  clown  the  departures  from 
Havre — instead  of  Southampton.  You  must  either  be  at 
the  Vauxhall  Station  by  four  o'clock — so  as  to  arrive  in  3 
hours  and  a  half  at  Southampton  and  leave  by  8\  p.m.- — or 
must  go  by  the  Sunday  Boat, — or  ivaii  till  Tuesday. 
Dieppe  is  impossible,  being  too  early.  You  must  decide 
— and  let  me  know  directly.  To-morrow  is  too  early — yet 
one  .  .  that  is,  I — could  manage. 

Ever  your  own,  in  all  haste 

R.  B. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

7i— Thursday. 
[Post-mark,  September  18,  1846.] 

My  own  Ba — forgive  my  mistaking !  I  had  not  enough 
confidence  in  my  own  correctness.  The  advertisement  of 
the  Tuesday  and  Friday  Boats  is  of  the  South  of  England 
Steam  Company.  The  Wednesday  and  Saturday  is  that  of 
the  South  Western.  There  must  be  then  two  companies, 
because  on  the  Southampton  Railway  Bill  it  is  expressly 
stated  that  there  are  departures  for  Havre  on  all  four  days. 
Perhaps  you  have  seen  my  blunder.  In  that  case,  you  can 
leave  by  1-12^  as  you  may  appoint — 

Your  E. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

[Post-mark,  September  18,  1846.] 
Dearest  take  this  word,  as  if  it  were  many.     I  am  so 

tired — and  then  it  shall  be  the  right  word. 

Sunday  and  Friday  are  impossible.,    On  Saturday  I 

will  go  to  you,  if  you  like — with  half  done,  .  .  nothing 


560   THE  LETTEES  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  [Sept.  18 

done  .  .  .  scarcely.  Will  you  come  forme  to  Hodgson's? 
or  shall  I  meet  you  at  the  station?  At  what  o'clock  should 
I  set  out,  to  be  there  at  the  hour  you  mention? 

Also,  for  the  boxes  .  .  we  cannot  carry  them  out  of  the 
house,  you  know,  Wilson  and  I.  They  must  be  sent  on 
Friday  evening  to  the  Yauxhall  Station,  '  to  be  taken  care 
of. '  Will  the  people  keep  them  carefully  ?  Ought  some- 
one to  be  spoken  to  beforehand?  If  we  sent  them  to  New 
Cross,  they  would  not  reach  you  in  time. 

Hold  me  my  beloved — with  your  love.  It  is  very  hard — 
But  Saturday  seems  the  only  day  for  us.  Tell  me  if  you 
think  so  indeed. 

Your  very  own  Ba. 

The  boxes  must  have  your  name  on  them  of  course. 
Let  there  be  no  great  haste  about  sending  out  the  cards. 
Saturday  might  be  mentioned  in  the  advertisement,  without 
the  date — might  it  not? 

K  B.  B.  to  R.  B. 

[Post-mark,  September  18,  1846.  ] 
Dearest,    here  is   the  paper  of  addresses.     I  cannot 
remember,  I  am  so  confused,  half  of  them. 

Surely  you  say  wrong  in  the  hour  for  to-morrow.  Also 
there  is  the  express  train.     Would  it  not  be  better? 

Your  Ba. 

B.  B.  to  E.  B.  B. 

Hi  Friday. 
[Post-mark,  September  18,  1846.] 

My  own  best  Ba.  How  thankful  I  am  you  have  seen 
my  blunder — I  took  the  other  company's  days  for  the 
South  Western's  changed.  What  I  shall  write  now  is  with 
the  tables  before  me  (of  the  Railway)  and  a  transcript  from 
to-day's  advertisement  in  the  Times. 

The  packet  will   leave  to-morrow  evening,    from  the 


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1846]  AND  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  561 

Royal  Pier,  Southampton  at  nine.  We  leave  Nine  Elms, 
Vauxhall,  at  Jive — to  arrive  at  eight.  Doors  close  five  min- 
utes before.  I  will  be  at  Hodgson's  from  half-past  three  to 
four  precisely  when  I  shall  hope  you  can  be  ready.  I  shall 
go  to  Vauxhall,  apprise  them  that  luggage  is  coming 
(yours)  and  send  mine  there — so  that  we  both  shall  be 
unencumbered  and  we  can  take  a  cab  or  coach  from  H's. 

Never  mind  your  scanty  preparations  .  .  we  can  get 
everything  at  Leghorn,  — and  the  new  boats  carry  parcels 
to  Leghorn  on  the  15th  of  every  month,  remember — so  can 
bring  what  you  may  wish  to  send  for. 

I  enclose  a  letter  to  go  with  yours.  The  cards  as  you 
choose — they  are  here — we  can  write  about  them  from 
Paris  or  elsewhere.  The  advertisement,  as  you  advise. 
All  shall  be  cared  for. 

God  bless  and  strengthen  you,  my  ever  dearest  dearest 
— I  will  not  trust  myself  to  speak  of  my  feelings  for  you — 
worship  well  belongs  to  such  fortitude.  One  struggle  more 
— if  all  the  kindness  on  your  part  brought  a  strangely 
insufficient  return,  is  it  not  possible  that  this  step  may 
produce  all  you  can  hope?  Write  to  me  one  word  more. 
Depend  on  me.     I  go  to  Town  about  business. 

Your  own,  own  R. 

E.  B.  B.  to  B.  B. 

Friday  Night. 
[Post-mark,  September  19,  1846.] 

At  from  half-past  three  to  four,  then — four  will  not,  I 
suppose,  be  too  late.  I  will  not  write  more — ■  I  cannot. 
By  to-morrow  at  this  time,  I  shall  have  you  only,  to  love 
me — my  beloved! 

You  only !  As  if  one  said  God  only.  And  we  shall  have 
Him  beside,  I  pray  of  Him. 

I  shall  send  to  your  address  at  New  Cross  your  Han- 
mer's  poems — and  the  two  dear  books  you  gave  me,  which 
I  do  not  like  to  leave  here  and  am  afraid  of  hurting  by 
Vol.  II.— 36 


562      THE  BROWNING-BARRETT  LETTERS     [Sept.  19 

taking  them  with  me.     Will  you  ask  our  Sister  to  put  the 
parcel  into  a  drawer,  so  as  to  keep  it  for  us? 

Your  letters  to  me  I  take  with  me,  let  the  '  ounces  '  cry 
,out  aloud,  ever  so.  I  tried  to  leave  them,  and  I  could  not. 
That  is,  they  would  not  be  left :  it  was  not  my  fault — I  will 
not  be  scolded. 

Is  this  my  last  letter  to  you,  ever  dearest?  Oh — if  I 
loved  you  less  .  .  a  little,  little  less. 

Why  I  should  tell  you  that  our  marriage  was  invalid, 
or  ought  to  be ;  and  that  you  should  by  no  means  come 
for  me  to-morrow.  It  is  dreadful  .  .  dreadful  .  .  to  have 
to  give  pain  here  by  a  voluntary  act — for  the  first  time  in 
my  life. 

Remind  your  mother  and  father  of  me  affectionately 
and  gratefully — and  your  Sister  too !  Would  she  think  it 
too  bold  of  me  to  say  our  Sister,  if  she  had  heard  it  on  the 
last  page? 

Do  you  pray  for  me  to-night,  Robert?  Pray  for  me, 
and  love  me,  that  I  may  have  courage,  feeling  both — 

Your  own 
Ba. 

The  boxes  are  safely  sent.  Wilson  has  been  perfect 
to  me.  And  /  .  .  calling  her  '  timid, '  and  afraid  of  her 
timidity !  I  begin  to  think  that  none  are  so  bold  as  the 
timid,  when  they  are  fairly  roused. 


INDEX 


Acton,  Cardinal,  i.  148. 

Adams,  Mrs.,  i.  650. 

^Elian,  i.  369,  375,  535;  ii.  195,  201. 

^Eschylus,  i.  15,  31ff.,  34,  35ff.,  38ff., 

45,  61,  87,  171,  312. 
Alfieri,  Vittorio,  i.  52. 
Andersen,      Hans      Christian     ('  The 
Dane'),  i.  62,  160. 
his  '  Improvisatore,'  i.  45,  60,  51, 
54  ;  his  '  Only  a  Fiddler,'  1, 154, 
160. 
Angelico,  Fra,  i.  196. 
Apuleius,  E.  B.  B.'s  translations  from, 

i.  167. 
'  Athenaeum,' the,  i.  154,  161,  166,  288, 

322,  325,  387,  393,  410,  413,  537, 

553,  566;  ii.  33,  35,  102,  157,  175, 

306,  342,  418. 
Arnould,    Joseph  (afterwards  Sir),  ii. 

102,115,410,463,485. 
Asolo,  i.  113. 
Australia  (proposals  for  E.  B.  B.  to 

write  ballads,  &c.,  for),  ii.  478. 
'Autography,'  i.    318,    319,    322;    ii. 

187. 

Babbage,  C,  i.  24. 

Bacon,  Lord,  i.  478,  481. 

Bailey,  P.  J.,  his  'Festus,'  i.  373,  382. 

Balzac,  H.  de,  ii.  35,  91,  93,  107,  113. 

Barrett,  Alfred,  brother  of  E.  B.  B.,  i. 

192,  195;  ii.  176. 
Barrett,  Arabel,  sister  of  E.  B.  B.,  i. 

101,  193,  215,  219,  329,  537 ;  ii.  327, 

332  and  passim. 
Barrett,     Charles    John    (' Stormie '), 

brother  of  E.  B.  B.,  i.  219,  415,  570  ; 

ii.  108,  111,  406,  456. 
Barrett,  Edward   ('Bro'),  brother  of 

E.  B.  B.,  his  death,  i.  175ff. 


Barrett,  Edward  Moulton,  father  of  E. 
B.  B.,  i.  122,  131,  141,  167, 174, 190, 
192,  212,  218,  235,  240ff.,  407,  502, 
526  ;  ii.  26,  109,  151,  269,  292,  330, 
333,  338,  340,  382,  447,  484,  489, 
551. 
Barrett,  Elizabeth  Barrett : 

on  poetic  composition,  i.  21. 

on  her  translation  of  '  Prometheus 

Bound,'  i.  31. 
proposes    to    write   a  '  novel '   or 

'romance'   poem,   i.    32,    150, 

153,  271. 
project      of      writing    a    drama 

('Psyche  Apocalypte ')  with  R. 

H.  Home,  i.  61. 
American    appreciation,    i.     115, 

306;  ii.  152,  165,  183,  426. 
proposals  for  wintering  abroad,  i. 

131ff.,  135,  167,  190,  208,  218, 

225,  229,  234ff.,  240. 
religious  views,  i.  145  ;  ii.  427. 
on  George  Sand,  i.  164. 
on  the  death  of  her  brother  Ed- 
ward, i.  175ff. 
references   to  her  dangerous  ill- 
ness, i.  43,  175;  ii.  26. 
American  publishers,  i.  187,  189, 

258,  260. 
on  her  pet  name  'Ba,'  i.  192,  195, 

340,  345. 
her  portrait,  i.  195;  ii.  12,  19. 
requests  R.  B  's  autograph  for  a 

friend,  i.  227. 
on   R.  B's.  poetry,   i.   268ff.;    ii. 

488. 
sends  a  ring  and  lock  of  hair  to 

R.  B.,  i.  307,  308. 
opinions    on    French    fiction,    i. 

340 ;  ii.  102. 


564 


INDEX 


Barrett,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  (eont): 

on  women's  position  and  married 
life,  i.  350ff.;  ii.  422. 

early  reading,  i.  404. 

French  verses,  i.  403. 

on  R.  B.'s  letters,  i.  415,  420,  482, 
489;  ii.  18. 

•on  the  publication  of  letters,  i. 
480. 

on  autograph  collectors,  i.  531. 

on  the  difficulties  of  her  engage- 
ment with  R.  B.,  ii.  32,  78,  81, 
121,  140,  219,  221,  227,  228, 
231,  334,  339,  372,  376,  381, 
383,  394,  414,  456,  462,  491, 
494. 

on  artistic  Bohemianism,  ii.  30. 

on  the  curiosity  of  strangers, 
their  visits,  letters,  &c,  ii.  31, 
73,  168,  420,  470. 

on  duelling,  ii.  41ff.,  45,  53ff. 

on  Raffael's  portrait,  ii.  149. 

plans  for  going  to  Italy  with  R. 
B.,  ii.  207,  209,  274,  277ff., 
287,  319,  377,  389,  414,  471, 
476,  478,  487,  499ff.,  503,  508. 

proposal  for  her  to  visit  New 
Cross,  ii.  225,  229. 

her  money  affairs,  ii.  227,  233, 
363,  366,  398ff.,  406,  473ff. 

visit  to  the  Great  Western  Rail- 
way, ii.  233,  432. 

visit  to  Mr.  Rogers'  picture  gal- 
lery, ii.  249,  261. 

visits  to  H.  S.  Boyd  described,  ii. 
258,  281. 

on  the  death  of  B.  R.  Haydon,  ii. 
264,  270 ;  on  Home's  verses  on 
Haydon,  ii.  298  ;  bequest  of  his 
MSS.  to  E.B.B.,  ii.  303ff.,  306, 
308ff.,  314ff.,321ff.,  325. 

on  women  and  politics,  ii.  282. 

her  visit  to  Finchley,  ii.  442,  444, 
449. 

'  Blackwood's  Magazine's '  offer 
to  print  her  lyrics,  ii.  457,  463, 
476. 

visit  to  church,  and  the  effect  of 
music  on  her,  ii.  458,  465,  489. 

proposal  to  write  ballads,  &c,  for 
Australia,  ii.  478. 

her  marriage,  ii.  535  nt  537. 
Barrett,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  works  : 

'Bertha  in  the  Lane,'  i.  10,  148, 
270. 

'  Catarina  to  Camoens,'  i.  148,  422. 


Barrett,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  works  (cont.): 
'The  Cry  of  the  Children,'  pro- 
posals   for  musical   setting,  i. 
519,  532. 
'A  Drama  of  Exile,'  i.  10,  19. 
'An  Essay  of  Mind,'  i.  129,  132, 

134,  135,  381. 
'  Lady  Geraldine's   Courtship,'  i. 

32,  148,  162,  270. 
'Past  and  Future,'  i.  281. 
'Poems,'  2  vols.  1844,  i.  9,  189, 
280  ;  ii.  284 ;  American  edition, 
i.  185,  186. 
'  Rhvme  of  the  Duchess  May,'  i. 

10. 
'  The  Romaunt  of  Margret,'  i.  381. 
'  The   Romaunt  of  the  Page,'  i. 

10. 
'The  Seraphim,'  i.  129,  189,  381. 
'Two  Sketches,'  i.  192. 
'  The  Vision  of  Fame,'  i.  182. 
'A  Vision  of  Poets,'  i.  147,  381. 
'  Wine  of  Cyprus,'  ii.  441,  444, 

446. 
Translations  from  Bion,  Theocri- 
tus, Apuleius,  Nonnus,  i.   167, 
170ff.,  493  ;  ii.  8  ;  from  Homer, 
i.  574;  ii.  8,  22,  25,  31,  69,  138, 
160;  from  J^schylus,  i.  34,  75, 
140,    142,    148,    150;    ii,    456; 
fromPictrod'Abano,  i.  458,459. 
Barrett,  George,  brother  of  E.  B.  B.,  i. 
192,   195,  215,  218,  219,  229,  234, 
240,  288,  318,  321,  402,  436,  441, 
488,  492,  496;  ii.  115,  439. 
Barrett,  Henrietta,  sister  of  E.  B.  B.,  i. 
128,  193,  329,  405,  430,434,  512;  ii. 
141,  332,  385,  487  and  passim. 
Barrett,  Henry,  brother  of  E.  B.  B.,  i. 

157. 
Barrett,  Lizzie,  cousin  of  E.  B.  B.,  i. 

518;  ii.  244. 
Barrett,  Mary  (E.  B.  B.'s  mother),  ii. 

482. 
Barrett,  Octavius  ('  Occy '),  brother  of 
E.  B.  B.,  his  illness,  i.  236ff.,  240ff., 
246ff.,  265. 
Barrett,  Sam,  cousin  of  E.  B.  B.,  i.  517. 
Bartoli,  his  '  Simboli,'  i.  535,  536,  540. 
Bayley,  Miss,  i.  299,  302,  303 ;  ii.  22, 
109,  111,  114,  120,  136,  195,  547; 
her  plans  for  taking E.  B.  B.  to  Italy, 
ii.  189,  197,  207,  243. 
Beethoven,  i.  528  ;  ii.  153 ;  his '  Fidelio,' 

i.  161. 
Benjamin  of  Tudela,  R.,  i.  158  n. 


INDEX 


565 


Bennet,  Miss  Georgiana,  ii.  73,  80,  110, 

224  327   367 
Bennett,  W.' C.,  ii.  106, 124,329, 364,387. 
Bevan,  Mr.,  ii.  333. 
Bezzi,  Mr.,  ii.  139,  190. 
'  Blackwood's  Magazine,'  i.  23  ;  ii.  467, 

468,  476. 
Blake,  William,  ii.  317. 
Blessington,  Lady,  i.  157. 
Boccaccio,  Giovanni,  i.  45,  390. 
Boyd,  Hugh  Stuart,  i.  100,  235,  340 ; 
ii.  258,  259,  281,  405,  439,  441,  443, 
456,  469,  537. 
Bremer,  Miss,  ii.  118. 
'  British  Quarterly,'  the,  i.  268. 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  ii.  52. 
Browning,  Miss,  i.  146,  152,  189,  514; 

ii.  164,  167,  203,  410,  562. 
Browning,  Mrs.,  senior,  i.  146 ;  ii.  453, 

480,  497. 
Browning,  R.,  senior,  i.  28,  146,  493; 
ii.  424,  644 ;  his  drawings  for  R.  B.'s 
poems,  i.  413,  431 ;  his  early  life,  ii. 
474,  480,  481. 
Browning,  Robert : 

Mr.  Kenyon's  offer  of  introduction 

to  Miss  Barrett,  i.  2,  280. 
on  E.  B.  B.'s  poems,  i.  9,  147. 
helps  Carlyle  with  his  '  Cromwell,' 

i.  16. 
on  the  attitude  of  the  public  tow- 
ards his  work,  i.  17ff. 
first  visit  to  E.  B.  B.,  i.  72  n. 
account  of  the '  bora '  at  Trieste,  i. 

126. 
on  '  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess,'  i. 

138. 
on  George  Sand,  i.  163. 
baptised     at     an     Independent 

Chapel,  i.  147. 
reference  to  his  visit  to  St.  Peters- 
burg, i.  154. 
on  dramatic  poetry  and  novels,  i. 

155,  160. 
on  reading  law  with  Basil   Mon- 
tagu, i.  199. 
his  early  life,  i.  200,  347. 
on  the  performance  of '  Every  Man 

in  his  Humour,'  i.  212,  217. 
his  portrait  in  the  '  New  Spirit  of 

the  Age,'  i.  315;  ii.  218. 
sends  a  lock  of  hair  to  E.  B.  B.,  i. 

303,  331. 
his  visit  to  R.  H.  Home,  i.  364ff . 
on    R.  H.  Home's  '  Ballad    Ro- 
mances,' i.  368. 


Browning,  Robert  (cont.) : 

French  verses,  i.  417. 

on  a  proposal  of  a  journey  to  St. 
Petersburg,  i.  485,  503. 

on  music,  i.  539. 

plants  rose-trees,  ii.  10. 

thoughts  for  future  work,  i.  454  ; 
ii.  25,  388. 

on  duelling,  ii.  33,  46ff.,  58. 

on  the  rearrangement  of  his 
poems,  ii.  71. 

on  French  romance,  ii.  107. 

his  birthday,  ii.  135. 

at  the  Royal  Literary  Fund  Din- 
ner, ii.  143,  144,  147,  160,  157. 

proposal  to  write  a  long  poem,  ii. 
175,  179. 

'Mr.  Forster's  "Strafford,"'  ii. 
214. 

meets  a  phrenologist,  ii.  215,  217- 

on  his  engagement  with  E.  B.  B., 
ii.  225. 

proposes  to  seek  Government  em- 
ployment, ii.  227,  230,  234,  246. 

on  the  death  of  B.  R.  Haydon,  ii. 
263,267,  316ff. 

plans  for  his  marriage,  ii.  268, 
374. 

on  Parliament,  ii.  280. 

on  his  name,  ii.  284,  285. 

on  Italian  post  offices,  ii.  110,  288. 

on  Home's  verses    on   Haydon's 
death,  ii.  302. 
-    on  Haydon's  bequest  of  MSS.  to 
E.  B.  B.,  ii.  305,  314ff.,  325. 

on  strangers'  letters,  ii.  329. 

his  dream  on  Haydon,  ii.  329. 

on  E.  B.  B.'s  letters,  i.  295,  417  ; 
ii.  8,  248,  417,  434. 

on  E.  B.  B.'s  religious  opinions,  ii. 
434. 

on  Lord  Byron,  ii.  463. 

final  preparations  for  their  journey 
to  Italy,  ii.  463ff.,  472,  492ff., 
533,  551,  654  and  ff. 

early  compositions  in  imitation  of 
Ossian.  ii.  466. 

his  marriage,  ii.  535  n. 

his  family's  attitude  towards  E.  B. 
B.,  ii.  542,  544. 
Browning,  Robert,  works : 

'Bells  and  Pomegranates,  i.  9,  13, 
98,  131, 135, 144,  148,  319,  359  ; 
ii.  426 ;  see  also  '  Dramatic  Ro- 
mances and  Lyrics,'  'Luria,' 
and  '  A  Soul's  Tragedy.' 


566 


INDEX 


Browning,  Robert,  works  (co?it.): 

meaning  of  the  phrase,  i.  248,249, 

250,  569 ;  ii.  2,  67. 
'  The  Bishop  orders  his  Tomb  at 

St.  Praxed  Church,'  i.  134,  252, 

277. 
'The   Blot  in  the   Scutcheon,'  i. 

323. 
1  The  Boy  and  the  Angel '  ('  Theo- 

crite,'   '  Angel    and   Child '),  i. 

134,  261. 

'Claret  and  Tokay'  ('Nationality 
in  Drinks'),  i.  131,  135. 

'  Colombe's  Birthday,'  ii.  453,  466. 

'Count  Gismond,'  i.  176. 

Dante,  Translation  from,  i.  347, 
353. 

'  Dramatic  Romances  and  Lyrics  ' 
('  Bells  and  Pomegranates '  No. 
VII.),  i.  58,  66. 

proof  of,  i.  258,  260,  261,  262. 
its  publication,  i.  265,  266,  267. 
E.  B.    B.    on,   i.    268ff.   to    C. 

Mathews,  i.  319. 
Mr.  Kenyon  on,  i.  273. 
Mr.  Fox 'on,  i.  276,  277. 
noticed   in    the   'Examiner,'  i. 

285. 
noticed  in  the  'New  Monthly,'  i. 

359. 
noticed  in  the   'Athenaeum,'  i. 
410,  413. 

'Earth's  Immortalities,'  i.  261. 

1  The  Englishman  in  Italy  ('Eng- 
land in  Italy,'  'Fortu,'  'Sorren- 
to Lines'),  i.  253,  267,  269,  277. 

'  The  Flight  of  the  Duchess,'  i.  54, 
58ff.,  62,  76,  97,  104ff,  114, 
115,   120,   121,  123,   128,  131, 

135,  138,     147,     149ff.,    244, 
253,  261,  273,  277;  ii.  90. 

French  Book,  An  Elementary,  i. 

208. 
'Garden  Fancies,'  i.  134. 
'  The  Glove,'  i.  261,  277. 
'  Home  Thoughts   from  Abroad ' 

('Spring  Song'),  i.  229ff. 
'  Home  Thoughts  from  the  Sea,'  i. 

253. 
'  How  we  brought  the  Good  News 

from    Ghent    to    Aix'     ('The 

Ride'),  i.  273,  277ff. 
'  The  Italian  in  England  '  ('  Italy  in 

England'),  i.  159,  277. 
'  The  Laboratory,'  i.  134. 
'  The  Lost  Leader,'  i.  252. 


Browning,  Robert,  works  (cont.): 
'  The  Lost  Mistress,'  i.  252,  269. 
'  Luria :    a  Tragedy '  ('  Bells  and 
Pomegranates '  No.  VIII.),  i.  17, 
22,  26,  30,  58,  59,  80,  83,  85, 
260,  271,  423,  466,  471 ;  ii.  2, 
13,  21,  367. 
E.  B.   B.  on,  i.    276ff.,   285, 
312,  353,  358ff.,  418ff.,  459, 
468,  540,  574;  ii.  76ff. 
proof  of,  ii.  12,  17. 
dedication  of,  ii.   12,  18,  44, 

66ff. 
publication  of,  ii.  66. 
Mr.  Kenyon  on,  ii.  82. 
Carlyle  on,  ii.  90. 
Mr.  Chorley  on,  ii.  92. 
noticed  in  the  '  Examiner,'  ii. 
108,  410. 
'Night  and  Morning,'  i.  261. 
'Only  a  Player  Girl,'  i.  155,  160. 
'  Paracelsus,'  i.  62,  208,  246,  322 

326,  380,  392. 
'  Pauline,'  i.   386,  390,  397,  400, 
403,  417,  420. 

reviewed  by  J.  S.  Mill,  i.  28, 33. 
'  Pictor  Ignotus,'  i.  252,  277. 
Pietro  d'Abano,  Translation  from, 

i.  458,  463. 
'Pippa  Passes,'  i.  12,  22,  24,  28, 

100;  ii.  348. 
'Saul,'  i.   60,  76,  179,  182,  191, 
261,  277,  325. 
Blue  lilies  in,  i.  523,  553,  566. 
'  Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister,' 

i.  22. 
'Song,'  i.  261. 
'  Sordello,'  i.  134,  193,  247,  346, 

454,  468. 
'A   Soul's  Tragedy   ('Bells   and 
Pomegranates'    No.   VIII.),   i. 
26,  30,  97,  467,  470;  ii.  16,  34, 
67,  92. 

E.  B.  B.  on,  i.  540;  ii.  13ff., 

17,  34,  77. 
publication  of,  ii.  66. 
Mr.  Kenyon  on,  ii.  82. 
Mr.  Chorley  on,  ii.  92. 
noticed  in  the  'Examiner,'  ii. 
108. 
Buckingham,  Mr.,  i.  558,  560,  565,  571. 
Bulwer,  Sir  Edward  Lytton,  afterwards 
first  Lord  Lytton,  i.  245. 
his  '  Alice,'  i.  160. 
his '  Ernest  Maltravers,'  i.  160, 165. 
his  '  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,'  i.  155. 


INDEX 


567 


Bunn,  Alfred,  i.  667 ;  ii.  135. 

Bunyan,  J.,  ii.  37. 

Burdett-Coutts,  Miss,  i.  559. 

Barges,  George,  i.  167,  169,  171,  493, 
544,  548. 

Burns,  R.,  i.  477. 

Bury,  Lady  Charles,  her  '  Reminis- 
cences,' i.  228. 

Butler,  Mrs.  (Fanny  Kemble),  her 
poems,  ii.  27,  37,  386,  389. 

Butler,  Samuel,  his  '  Hudibras  '  quoted, 
i.  562. 

Bvron,  Lady,  i.  130. 

Byron,  Lord,  i.  125  ;  ii.  453,  461,  471. 

Calderon,  i.  65. 

'Cambridge  Advertiser,'  the,  ii.  28. 

Campbell,  Miss,  ii.  169,  171,  173,  177, 
182. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  ii.  285. 

Carlyle,  Mrs.,  i.  194,  238  ;  ii.  251,  253. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  i.  25,  27,  29,  30, 
151,  157,  194,  260,  315,  454, 
456;  ii.  8,80,81,84,90,92,  98, 
159,  184,  236,  276. 
•Oliver  Cromwell,'  i.  16,  25,  447; 
ii.  2,  285. 

Cerutti's  Italian  Grammar,  i.  464. 

Cervantes  'Don  Quixote,'  i.  46. 

Chambers,  Dr.,  i.  122,  125,  157,  175, 
186,  188;  ii.  253. 

Chapman,  George,  i.  97,  335. 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  i.  159,  266,  335, 391, 
426. 

Chesterfield,  Lord,  i.  525 ;  ii.  105. 

Chorley,  H.  F.,  i.  45,  107,  108,  144. 
148,  154,  287,  295,  297,  315, 
386,  392ff.,  397,  479,  483,  489, 
492,  544,  550ff.,  568  ;  ii.  92,  102, 
106,  131,  135,  344,  348,  349, 
351,  409,  435,  439,  440,  453, 
485. 
his  'Pomfret,'  i.  272,  279,  282, 
290,  291. 

'  Christus  Patiens,'  i.  171. 

Cimarosa,  D.,  i.  539. 

Claude  le  Jeune,  i.  539,  540. 

Clayton,  John,  i.  525. 

Cockers,  the  Misses,  ii.  176,  182. 

Cocks,  Lady  Margaret,  ii.  126,  130, 
240. 

Colburn,  Henry,  i.  200. 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  i.  279,  335,  364 ;  ii. 
83,  453. 

Colonna,  Vittoria,  i.  116. 

Compton,  Lord,  ii.  28,  29. 


Cook,  Surtees,  Captain,  i.  421,436,  512, 

526;  ii.  353,  385,  487. 
Corelli,  A.,  i.  539. 
Crashaw,  Richard,  i.  335. 
Cushman,  Miss,  i.  154,  160,  393,  443. 

'  Daily  News,'  i.  400,  407,  421 ;  ii.  28, 
Dante,  i.  52,  54,  56,   116,    309,   347, 

353,  570;  ii.  276. 
Darwin,  Erasmus,  i.  381. 

134,  175,  298,  337. 
De  Lamennais,  L'Abbe,  ii.  107. 
DeMusset,  Alfred,  ii.  107. 
Dickens,  Charles,  i.  69,  217,  260,  392, 
441;  ii.  115,  122,  135. 
his  '  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,'  i.  344, 

354. 
his  'Pictures  from  Italy,'  ii.  167, 
168. 
Diderot,  Denis,  i.  113,  118. 
Dilke,  C.  W.,  i.  393;  ii.  134,  175. 
D'Israeli,  Benjamin,  his  '  Sybil,' i.  124. 
his  '  Vivian  Grey,'  i.  52,  53ff.,  56. 
Domett,    Alfred,  i.   16,  295,  526;    ii. 

349. 
Donne,  Dr.  John,  i.  27,  145,  196,  417, 

437;  ii.  115. 
D'Orsay,  Count,  ii.  135,  137. 
Dowland,  John,  i.  540. 
Doyle,  John  ('  H.  B.'),  ii.  430. 
Drayton,  M.,  his  'Nymphidia,'  i.  371. 
Dryden,  John,  i.  23. 
Dulwich  Galleries,  the  two,  i.  514,  518, 

520,  524. 
Dumas,  Alexander,  ii.  103,  344. 

his  '  Monte  Cristo,'  ii.  213,  338. 

Eagles,  Mr.,  ii.  372,  450. 
Elliotson,  Dr.,  i.  117. 
Etty,  William,  ii.  188,  190. 
Euripides,  i.  21. 

'Examiner,'  the,  i.  288,  322,  373,463; 
ii.  106,  107,  108,  410. 

Ferrers  case,  the,  i.  488. 

Fife,  Angus,  ii.  478. 

Fisher,  Miss  Emma,  i.  381. 

Fletcher,  J.,  i.  371. 

Florence,  ii.  195,  253. 

Flush,  Miss  Barrett's  dog,  i.  54,  150, 
167,  236,  263ff.,  544;  ii.  320,  324, 
356 ;  the  loss  of,  502-524,  passim. 

Ford,  J.,  i.  335. 

Forster,  John,  i.  217,  245,  268,  292, 
293,  294,  297,  299,  322,  373,  393, 
400,  403;   ii.  67,  81,   106,   107,  108, 


568 


INDEX 


111,  214,  239,  304,  307,  311,  314, 
315,  363,  372. 

Forsyth  Joseph,  quoted,  ii.  278. 

Fox,  Mrs.,  ii.  345. 

Fox,  W.  J.,  i.  276,  500,  551. 

French  and  English  criticisms  on  for- 
eign books,  i.  553,  561. 

Fuller,  Miss  Margaret  Sarah  (after- 
wards Mine.  Ossoli),  i.  373. 

Fuseli,  H.,  i.  65. 

Garrow,  Miss,  i.  156,  288. 

Gill,  Rev.  Thomas  Hornblower,  i.  570 ; 

ii.  3. 
Godwin,  William,  i.  196. 
Goethe,  J.  W.,  i.  272;  ii.  52,  312,  314, 

448. 
Grey,  Lord,  ii.  411. 
Gurney,  A.,  i.  73,  563. 

Hahn-Hahn,   the    Countess,   ii.    211, 

249,  251,  254,  262,  267. 
Hall,  Robert,  i.  510. 
Hall,  Spencer,  i.  246. 
Handel,  G.  F.,  i.  539. 
Hanmer,  Sir  John,  i.  287,  293,  396,  528. 
Harness,  Rev.  William,  i.  373. 
Ha  worth,  Miss,  ii.  171. 
Haydon,   B.   R.,   i.    85;    ii.    364;    his 
death,    ii.     263,     264ff.,     267, 
270ff.,   816ff.;    bequest   of   his 
MSS.  to  E.  B.  B.,  ii.   303,  306, 
314ff.,  321ff.,  325. 
Home's  verses  on  his  death,  ii. 
298,  299,  302,  337. 
Hazlitt,  William,  i.  336;  ii.  251. 
Heaton,   Miss,  ii.   127,  133,  154,  156, 

169,  171. 
Hedlev,    Arabella,    her    marriage,    ii. 

193',  303,  360,  390,  393,  428. 
Hedley,    Mrs.,    i.    84,   108ff.,   192;    ii. 

330,  332,  385. 
Hedley,  Robert,  ii.  237,  286,  319,  343. 
Hemans,  Charles  (son  of  Mrs.  Hemans), 

i.  115. 
Heraud,  John  Abraham,  i.   386,  390, 

568. 
Hood,  Thomas,  i.  58,  63,  456. 
'Hood's   Magazine,'  i.    58,    131,   133, 

134ff. 
Home,  R.  H.,  i.  7,  11,  28,  32,  61,  62, 
64,  81,  94,  96,  120,  121,  265, 
267,  269,  314,  363ff.,  391;  ii. 
392,  401,  405,  410. 
and  Miss  Mitford,  i.  462ff.,  465ff., 
470. 


Home,  R.  H.,  verses  on  the  death  of 
B.  R.  Haydon,  ii.  298,  299,  302, 
337. 
'Ballad     Romances,'     i.     368ff., 

370ff.,  378ff.,  384. 
his  '  Cosmo  de  Medici,'  i.  65,  371. 
'  Death  of  Marlowe,'  i.  371. 
'  Gregory  VII.,'  i.  65. 
'  New  Spirit  of  the  Age,'  i.  69. 
'Orion,'  i.  371. 
Howitt,  Mary,  i.  45,  55,  160;  ii.  119, 

124. 
Howitt,  Richard,  i.  246. 
Howitt,  William,  ii.  118,  120,  124. 
Hugo,    Victor,    his    portrait,    ii.    344, 

357. 
Hume,  David,  quoted,  ii.  327. 
Hunt,    Leigh,  i.    125,   170,  227,   228, 
336,  364,  366,  391;  ii.  313. 
his  translation  of  lines  on  Pulci, 
i.  458,  463. 
Hunter,  Mary,  i.   229. 
Hunter,  Mr.,  i.  227 ;  ii.  495. 

Jameson,  Mrs.,  i.  116,  130,  150,  174, 
311,  497,  512,  514;  ii.  4,   11, 
27,  69,  72,  130,  137,  143,  148, 
154,   157,   160,    194,  218,   243, 
249,   261,   287,   288,  289,   300, 
343,  372,  454,  459,  468,  473, 
477,  482,  547. 
her  etchings,    ii.     8ff.,    56,    138. 
plan  for  taking  E.  B.  B.  to  Italy, 
ii.  190,  269,  286,  368,  403ff. 
Janin,  Jules,  i.  553 ;  ii.  345. 
Jerrold,  Douglas,  i.  217,  441. 
Jones,  Commodore,  ii.  143,  168,  184. 
Jonson,  Ben,  performance  of  'Every 
Man  in   his  Humour,'  i.  212,  216, 
2l7ff. 
Junius,  ii.  170,  173. 

Kean,  Charles,  i.  200. 

Kean,  Edmund,  i.  77. 

Keats,  John,  i.  13,  18,  194,  238,  244, 
364,  388;  ii.   150,  313. 

Keats,  John,  his  'Eve  of  St.  Agnes,' 
i.  194. 

Kelly,  Mr.  Fitzroy,  i.  200,  211,  488. 

Kemble,  Fanny.     See  Mrs.  Butler. 

Kenyon,  John,  i.  2,  4,  6,  9,  21,  47, 
134,  143,  188,  306,  359ff.,  446,  480, 
482,  537 ;  ii.  62ff.,  82,  165,  211,  233, 
269,  281,  307,  363,  368,  371,  378, 
384,  412,  432,  450,  549  and  passim. 

Kinglake,  A.  W.,  ii.  134. 


INDEX 


569 


La  Cava,  ii.  288,  291,  319,  321,  323. 
Lamb,  Charles,  i.  336,  393,  449. 
'  Lancet,'  the,  i.  245. 
Landelle,  ii.  115. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  i.  20,  131, 
282,  289,  294,  297,  299,  361 ; 
ii.  44,  81,  83,  85,  185,  199,211, 
239,  307,  311,  313,  370,  372, 
418,  450. 
his  'Count  Julian,'  i.  560,  561. 
his  'Dialogue  between  Tasso  and 

his  Sister,'  ii.  260,  262. 
his  '  Pentameron,'  i.  131. 
verses    to   Robert    Browning,    i. 
286ff.,  319,  493;  ii.  242. 
Lawes,  Henry,  i.  540. 
'League,'  the,  ii.  105,  111,  112. 
Lee,  Nathaniel,  i.  514. 
Leech,  John,  i.  217. 
Lewis,  '  Monk,'  i.  228. 
Londonderrv,  Lady,  i.  196. 
Longfellow," H.  W.,  ii.  137. 
Longman,  Mr.,  ii.  364. 
Lough,    John    Graham,    ii.   193,    195, 

212,  217,  219,  220,223,  450. 
Lowell,  J.  R.,  his  '  Conversations   on 
some  of  the  Old   Poets,'  i.  335ff., 
342ff. 
Lytton,  Sir  Edward.     See  Bulwer. 

Machiavelli,  N.,  i.  302,  309 ;  ii.  213. 

Mackay,  Charles,  i.  386,  393,  398. 

Maclise,  David,  i.  217  ;  ii.  306. 

Malherbe,  i.  257. 

Manners,  Lord  John,  i.  387. 

Marc- Antonio's  etchings,  ii.  148,  149. 

Markham,  Mrs.,  i.  343. 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  i.  96. 

Martineau,  Harriet,  i.  112,  114,  116, 
246,  263,  315,  357,  361,  373, 
428,  438,  466,  477  ;  ii.  69,  282, 
451,  459. 
her  letter  on  Wordsworth,  i.  461, 
476ff.,  486. 

Mathews,  Cornelius,  i.  307,  319,  323, 
343,  493  ;  ii.  426,  435,  440. 

Matthew,  Father,  i.  77. 

Medwin,  Capt.  Thomas,  his  '  Conversa- 
tions of  Lord  Byron,'  i.  228. 

'  Methodist  Quarterly,'  the,  ii.  162,  176. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  i."  28,  33,  78. 

Milner,  Mrs.,  ii.  74. 

Milnes,  R.  Monckton  (afterwards  Lord 
Houghton),  i.  628,  530;  ii.  134,  246, 
407. 

Milton,  John,  i.  45,  194 ;  ii.  261. 


Mitford,  Miss  M.  R.,  i.  11,  22,  61,  68, 
85,  95,  106,  108,  109,  110,  147, 
160,   263,   452,  453,  456,  482, 
489,  496 ;  ii.  22,  27,  241,  287, 
290,  314,  357,  413,  438. 
on  R.  H.  Home,  i.  462ff.,  465ff., 
470. 
Moliere,  i.  188. 
Monod,  Rev.  A.,  ii.  458ff. 
Montagu,  Basil,  i.  199. 
Montagu,  Lady  Mary,  her  '  Septennial 

Act,'  ii.  237. 
Montagu,  Mrs.,  i.  528. 
Montaigne,  Michel  de,  i.  131. 
Montefiore,  Sir  Moses,  i.  485,  500,  506, 

511,  522. 
Moore,  Thomas,  ii.  376  ;  his  'Life  and 

Letters  of  Byron,'  ii.  453. 
'  Morning  Chronicle,'  the,  i.  297,  387. 
Moxon,  Edward,  i.  18,  115,  187,  235, 
238,  265,  292,  297,  323,   471, 
528;  ii.  118,  122,  150,284,335, 
372,  485,  509. 
on  reviewers,  ii.  342. 

Napoleon  I.,  i.  24,  200,  238. 

'New  Monthly  Magazine'  (Colburn's^ 

i.  52,  53,  69,  120,  359. 
'New  Quarterly  Review,'  i.  375,  379. 
Northampton,  Lord,  i.  492. 
Norton,  Hon.  Mrs.,  i.  48,  61, 357  n,\  ii. 

308,  399. 

O'Connell,  D.,  ii.  42. 

Osgood,  Mrs.,  ii.  133. 

Ossian,  ii.  89,  258,  282,  457, 467,  470. 

Ovid,  i.  271. 

Padua,  i.  196. 

Paine,  Mrs.,  ii.  31,  74,  83,  85,  367. 

Palmella,  the  Duke  of,  i.  229,  230,  240. 

Patmore,  Coventry,  ii.  134. 

Peel,  Sir  Robert,  ii.  265,  270,  280. 

'  Peoples'  Journal,'  the,  i.  542,  550  ;  ii. 

123. 
Pietro  d'Abano,  i.  458,  463. 
Pisa,  i.  189,  192,  196,  200,  209,  231, 

236,  254,  257;  ii.  461. 
Plato,  i.  468,  536. 

Poe,  Edgar  A.,  i.  307,  384,  400,  443, 
565;  ii.  133,218. 
dedication  of  his  poems  to  E.  B. 

B.,  i.  428. 
his  *  Raven,'  i.  537. 
Polidoro,  i.  28  ;  ii.  153. 
Polk,  President,  ii.  98. 


570 


INDEX 


Porta,  J.  Baptista,  i.  497. 

Possagno,  i.  125. 

Powell,  T.,  i.  391,  395,  568  ;  ii.  156. 

Priessnitz,  i.  246. 

Pritchard,  Captain,  ii.  39,  83,  345,  495, 

543. 
Procter,  B.  W.,  i.  311,  493,  496  ;  ii.  133, 

254,  425. 
Procter,  Mrs.  B.  W.,  ii.  62,  70,  12,  15, 

134,  211,  326. 
Purchas,  J.,  i.  35*7  n. 
Pusey,  Dr.,  ii.  345. 

Qtjarles,  Francis,  i.  416;  ii.  187,  444. 
'  Quarterly  Review,'  the,  i.  19,  293,  310, 

313. 
Quintilian,  i.  35. 

Rabelais,  Francois  de,  i.  46. 
Rachel,  Mile.,  ii.  326,  339,  345,  410. 
Ravenna,  ii.  232,  251,  254. 
Reade,  J.  Edmund,  ii.  285,  370,  372, 

376. 
'  Retrospective   Review,'    i.   342,    344, 

380. 
Reybaud,  Mme.  Charles,  i.  553. 
Robinson,  Crabb,  i.  480. 
Rogers,  Samuel,  i.  85ff.,  196;  ii.  249ff., 

261,  262. 
Ronsard,  Peter,  i.  261,  271. 
Rossini,  G.  A.,  i.  540. 
Roval  Society's  soiree,  i.  492. 
Russell,  Henry,  i.  519,  532. 

Sand,  George,  i.  115,  118,  160,  164; 
ii.  102,  107,  347,  350. 
her  '  Comtesse  de  Rudolstadt,'  i. 

165. 
her  « Consuelo,'  i.  117,  155,  162ff., 

165. 
her  '  Leila,'  i.  117. 
her  '  Spiridion,'  i.  99. 
Schiller,  Friedrich,  i.  395. 
Schmitz,  Dr.  Leonhard,  i.  171. 
Severn,  Joseph,  ii.  151. 
Sevigne,  Mme.  de,  i.  258. 
Shakespeare,  William,  i.  23, 43,  65,  99, 
371;  ii.  87. 
'Romeo  and  Juliet,'  i.  15. 
Shaw,  Sir  James,  ii.  153. 
Shelley,  Mrs.,  i.  185,  196,  226,  286. 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  i.  38,  57,  65,  96,  116, 
196,  214,  322,   326,   364,  476, 
562;  ii.  79,  151,  153,  254,  313. 
his  '  Cenci,'  i.  228. 
his  'Marianne's  Dream,'  i.  215. 


Shelley,  P.  B.,  his  'Prometheus  Un 
"  bound,'  i.  228. 

his  '  St.   Irvyne,  or  the  Rosicru 
cian,'  i.  226,  228. 
Shirley,  James,  quoted,  ii.  174. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  i.  23. 
Sigourney,  Mrs.,  i.  343. 
Simpson,  Mr.,  i.  70ff. ;  ii.  31. 
Smith,  Elder  &  Co.,  ii.  485. 
Smith,  Rev.  Sydney,  i.  59 ;  ii.  364. 
Socrates,  i.  535,  536. 
Sorrento,  i.  196. 
Soulie,  Frederic,  i.  340 ;  ii.  107. 

his  '  Sept  Jours  au  Chateau,'  ii. 
103. 
Southey,  Robert,  ii.  453. 
Stael,  Mme.  de,  i.  337. 
Stanfield,  Clarkson,  i.  217. 
Starke,  Mrs.,  quoted,  ii.  279. 
'Statesman,'  the,  ii.  170,  173, 174, 183, 

190,  198. 
Stewart,  Dugdale,  i.  168;  ii.  27. 
Stilling,  Heinrich  (autobiography  of), 

i.  112. 
Stratten,  Rev.  James,  ii.  491,  498. 
Sue,  Eugene,  ii.  438,  527. 

Talfotjrd,  Mr.  Serjeant,  i.   320,  391, 
438,  568;  ii.  81,  304,  306,  308, 
311,  315,  319,  363. 
his  'Ion,'  i.  316ff.,  319,  322. 
Tasso,  T.,  i.  5 ;  ii.  260. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  i.  19,  24,  27,  69, 100, 
238,  244,  260,  315,  320,  381, 
402,  441,  443;   ii.   81,    115ff., 
122,  135,  151,  176,   227,    335, 
509. 
his  '  (Enone,'  i.  96  ;  '  Morte  d'Ar- 
thur,'  i.  96. 
Thackeray,  W.  M.,  i.  260 ;  ii.  407,  425, 

430. 
Thiers,  M.,  i.  343. 
Thomson,  Miss,  i.  167, 171ff.,  497, 500 ; 

ii.  8,  22. 
Thucydides,  i.  171. 
Tieck,  i.  458. 

'  Times,'  the,  i.  245,  247 ;  ii.  342. 
Titian,  i.  5. 
Trepsack,    Miss    ('Treppy'),  ii.    200, 

208,  209,  404,  419,  430. 
Trieste,  i.  126. 
Trollope,  Mrs.,  i.  111. 
Tuckerman,  H.,  his  'Thoughts  on  the 
Poets,'  ii.  183. 

Vasari,  G.,  i.  570. 


INDEX 


571 


Venables,  George  Stovin,  i.  402;    ii. 

115. 
Vidocq,  i.  113,  117. 
Voltaire,  i.  408,  481,  490. 

Wales,  Prince  of  (afterwards  George 

IV.),  i.  48. 
Warburton,  Eliot,  i.  287,  293,  396 ;  ii. 

372. 
Ward,  R.  P.,  his  'Tremaine,'  i.  501. 
Watts,  Dr.  Isaac,  i.  200. 
Whately,  Archbishop,  i.  112;  ii.  392. 
White,  Dr.,  i.  492. 
White,  Henry  Kirke,  i.  29. 


Widdicombe,  Harry,  ii.  430,  435. 

Wilkie,  David,  i.  86. 

Wilson,   Miss  Barrett's  maid,    i.  177, 

473;  ii.  354,  357,  537,  662. 
Wilson,        Professor       ('  Christopher 

North '),  i.  23. 
Wordsworth,  William,   i.  73,  85,   87, 
315,  361,461ff.,480,482;  ii.  47, 
63,  75,  76,  83,  118,  312,  453. 
Miss  Martineuu's  letter  on,  i.  461, 
475ff. 
Wordsworth,    William,  junr.,  i.   544, 

549;  ii.  118. 
Wylie,  Sir  James,  i.  154,  161. 


THE    END 


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